Sherlock Doesn't do Sentiment
by PiellaGibson
Summary: Sherlock returns to London to try and restore his normal life before all the fame. He seeks Molly's help, but the events that take place cause Sherlock to question his dislike for sentiment.
1. Chapter 1

**NOTE: I have to stress here that this is my first Sherlock fanfiction so I apologise for any mistakes I make or any out of character moments. Any who read, please let me know of any mistakes I have made so I can correct them and also constructive criticism is highly welcome. I'm really nervous about this so if I get no response, I won't burden you with the rest of the story. **

**Chapter One: Molly mopes over the events of recent weeks and wonders whether Sherlock will ever return to London. **

_**I don't own any of these characters! They belong to the BBC and the writers. I'm just taking inspiration from them.**_

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It was the usual routine. Feed the cat, go to work, gaze vacantly at _his_ usual work spot and come home. In between that time, wonder where he was, what he was up to and whether he would ever come home. Molly had managed to construct said custom during the last couple of months, as the man that had muddled her life so much before, was gone. She hadn't seen him since the day he'd jumped off the roof. Eight weeks and four days to be exact, she'd counted every minute. The last time she'd seen him was in the morgue. He wiped the blood from his face, stiffly swung on his coat, thanked her for what she had done and left. Didn't even look back or tell her where he was going. She'd asked him whilst they were working together in the lab, before the fall, what he would do in the aftermath, but he acted as though she had said nothing, asking her to sort out an analysis before John arrived. Then again, Molly had expected no less. He'd told her she'd counted, told her subtly that she had some value in his life and that he trusted her, but nothing would change and it was a struggle to tell herself over and over that he would need her no more. Tell her heart and soul to move on, forget him and be at peace now that there was no longer a distraction.

Molly assumed he'd headed abroad somewhere, got on a plane, a boat, anywhere that people wouldn't recognise him as the intelligent detective who solved unsolvable crime, where Moriarty's men couldn't find him and where he could focus on bringing down the master's web, whatever the cost. She knew Sherlock despised being famous. She knew that he wanted to go about his own business in private, move around the streets of London, hidden from the radar of prying eyes, like he had before all the attention. And after recent events, Molly doubted sincerely that he would ever return, or that she would ever hear from him again. Her heart still split at the thought.

As if things weren't complicated enough, John had paid her several visits, spinning her loyalty and honesty into disarray. He'd talked about the lack of thrill in his life now that Sherlock was gone, the emptiness he felt every waking moment, nothing to do and nowhere to go. It was evident that he visited her lab to get a sense of closeness to his best friend, be somewhere that Sherlock so often liked to be. Molly felt intensely awkward, knowing this whole time she was lying to this man in the pits of grief, not able reassure him that Sherlock was safe, not allowed to let John in on his friends plan. John was concerned for her as he indeed knew of her feelings for that man. It was almost as if he felt some comfort being with her, knowing they were two people who cared deeply in their own ways, for a man that many thought was a fraud, to see through to the real Sherlock, with no need for guarantee on his true abilities. They'd seen him for what he was and in their minds, Sherlock was truly the world's only consulting detective, smarter than the rest.

Question after question was shot at her, as if he was in doubt that the consulting detective was really dead. Like he knew that Sherlock was too smart to just jump off a building because the media was pulling at his tail. A deeper reason for it all than just sentiment. Sherlock didn't do sentiment.

John gave her a comforting hug. His face frowned sympathy at her, his eyes reeking of his own pain and sorrow. It took all of Molly's will power not to break down in front of him, to confess what she knew and save him from his mourning. She would never lie before and yet, every word that came out of her mouth these months was dishonest and deceitful. Her faithfulness to Sherlock had turned her into someone she didn't recognise, doing this for a man she had no hope with and would never speak to again.

Molly had to constantly remember that what she had done was the right thing. By saving the person she cared for most in the world, she had ultimately saved the lives of others also and however painful the aftermath would be, however much lying she would have to do to keep his plan intact, to keep _him_ safe, she would do it. He'd trusted her and told her that things would work out. She trusted his every word.

Leaving St Bartholomew's, Molly sighed, shaking her head as her phone began to buzz. She leant on the wall, the effort of the day and her heavy bag weighing on her shoulder. Her organisational skills had left her long ago, paperwork, purse and phone all shoved into her bag like there was no real point in making the effort. She rooted through it, wondering whether it would even be worth pulling her phone out. Reporters had only just seemed to let her go, no longer haunting her with questions about her involvement in Sherlock's life. And here again, her mobile was going off, another favour from someone perhaps? Another favour she couldn't seem to turn down, too much in need of helping those around her. Couldn't she catch a minute to herself before someone else asked for her help? Couldn't she be selfish, just once?

_You're stressed. Green tea will help you to relax_

_SH_

Molly's mouth gaped open, her heart pounded in her chest, enough to kill her, she thought. Her head flicked from side to side, pony tail swishing with her, checking to see if he was casually leaning on a wall, or sat in a cab, waiting to surprise her with his gallant return. Her vivid imagination momentarily took hold. She would run into his arms, tell him she missed him. And in return, he would confess his love and kiss her and-

Her phone buzzed again.

_Don't get all sentimental, Molly_

_SH_

Molly's hand covered her mouth, utterly shocked and unsure of herself. She let her bag fall to the floor, a smile clumsily ascending her minuscule lips. This was so unexpected and such a relief at the same time. After all this time she finally knew he was okay. Her worries of him being dead or in danger and out of her reach, all dispersed in an instant. Though she couldn't fathom why he was texting her? Molly thought herself too irrelevant in his life, for him to be letting her know he was safe. He had never texted her before. Well, he had, though only to tell her to run an analysis on something or to ask the results on one of her post-mortems.


	2. Chapter 2

**NOTE: I am extremely grateful to everyone who has read this and reviewed. I honestly didn't expect anything at all, so thank you. This chapter is the same length as the last one because it was right to end it here. They will be getting slightly longer after this. I do hope this chapter is okay. Again, sorry for any mistakes or out of character moments. Let me know if you think there are any and I will try to adapt it. Please review, they've inspired me to continue! **

**Chapter Two: An unexpected visitor turns up at Molly's house.**

_**I do not own these characters, if only I did.**_

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Her mind raced the whole way home, running a red light by mistake with the excitement of hearing from him. Was he back in London? Where was he staying? _Molly, stop it_. She had to stop her irrepressible thoughts before they ran away with her. Molly had done this in the past, let her feelings for Sherlock get ahead of what was reality. The harsh realism in her eyes being that he didn't do sentiment. He didn't do relationships, or love, or sex. They were all distractions, chemicals that ran through the body to weaken the mind.

"Toby?" Molly shouted as she unlocked her front door, picking up the post that had dropped through her letterbox and unintentionally dropping her keys simultaneously, "I've got a treat for you!" The cat came running over, rubbing himself around her ankles as she bent down to stroke him, "Fish. Your favourite."

"He prefers chicken," Molly let go of the _M&S_ bag in her hands, the contents of it exposed onto her oak floor. Sherlock's profound voice rippled through her, causing her to bring her hand up to her chest as Toby scampered to her bedroom. How had she not seen him? He was straight in front of her but her mind had somehow blanked him out. Sherlock continued as if the situation was the norm, casually lounging with his feet up on her royal blue sofa, hands pressed under his chin, as if preying to a higher power, "I understand why you should assume the fish given the fact that people often associate the two together. But In actual fact, Toby is rather more keen on the evenings when you feed him the leftover chicken from your meal." He peered over to her with a small smirk, "I don't need to explain to you why, do I?"

"Wha…you…" Her mousy brown hair rustled about her neck as she glanced from Sherlock to the door, "How did you get in here? You can't just-"

With a sigh, the detective swung his legs off the sofa and stood, straightening his jacket as he did so, gliding elegantly towards where she was still standing by the door, "Please don't insult my intelligence, Molly."

"I-I'm not." She spoke quietly, too encompassed in a state of shock to fully appreciate that the man who took up her every thought, was stood in her living room, "I know you haven't been around here in a while," She took a breath, unable to keep her cool. This moment was all she had thought about for such a long time, him being in her flat, yet she felt the need to tell him he was intruding in her personal space, _without_ her permission, "and it is nice to see your face again-"

"Obviously." He said indifferently.

"But I don't think it's appropriate for you to turn up at someone's house like this." To tell the truth, she was overjoyed at the site in front of her, however she also knew he would only have to spend thirty seconds in her house, ten seconds even, and would be able to recite her whole life back to her, know all her secrets. She wanted to scrub the house of all its dirt, get started on the overdue dusting and clean her duvet, the obvious cat hairs a clear indication that Toby was her only companion in life. Molly's mind had gone into overdrive, so she clutched her eyes shut, "No, sorry. I mean-"

He couldn't help but roll his eyes, "There is no one in this room that you can fool. We both know how eager you have been for my return."

"W-who says I am?" Molly gave a self-conscious smile, shaking her head slightly in denial.

"Oh come on." Sherlock looked faintly frustrated, clearly finding such a deduction too simple for his superior mind, "Isn't it obvious? The wine glasses in the kitchen, the romance novels you read every night before you go to sleep, the tissues placed conveniently next to the sofa in case any of the sad films you purposefully watch provoke emotion. Before I texted you, you were constantly ignited with the cold feeling of sadness you had held within you since the day I faked my own death and left you with nothing but expectation of my whereabouts. The rush of excitement you were hit with when you saw the message was from me, sent you off on an uncontrollable path of conscious thought throughout your car journey home. Now affix that to your shock of me being in your home gives reason for the flush in your cheeks, your elevated heart rate and your shortness of breath." His hands had casually slipped into his pockets, "I could go on as you well know Molly, though you're probably more curious as to why I am here and why I have decided to come back to London."

There was a still silence. The Pathologist thought she might as well have stood before him naked, it would have been less embarrassing than what he had just done. He'd basically just called her a brooding idiot and she thought for once she would stick up for herself. But before any words were given a chance to leave Molly's mouth, Sherlock continued,

"I'll tell you," He began to walk about her flat, picking up random objects, observing them and then placing them down where they didn't belong, "Your boyfriend, Moriarty-"

"He was not my boyfriend."

"-has acquired a web across the world. America, Iraq, Africa. Name the place and his name is whispered in hushed voices. I've managed to eradicate any immediate threat to anyone I know here in London."

"How?"

"Molly, please refrain from interrupting me again. You're beginning to irritate me."

"Sorry."

Sherlock continued nonchalantly, "John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, are still safe as long as they remain to believe that I took my own life. They're still being watched, by his men. Constantly under surveillance. Any sign that they believe I'm alive and they'll be shot dead. These men are aware that I might have tried to fool them, fake my death and they assume I'll stay away with such a threat. A threat to the people I…feel have significance in my life." He paused, changing the tone of his voice, looking at her as if he somehow understood he needed to phrase this next part correctly, "Except, Moriarty miscalculated on one factor. He'd observed our relationship, thought it to be one-sided and irrelevant to me. He didn't realise I trust you like I trust John. If he had observed differently, I would be dead."

"So why are you back? Why are you here, talking to me?" Her hands came together nervously in front of her. They'd rarely spoken about anything other than work. It was only recently things had changed, only of late she had seen she meant at least something to him.

"Because you are my only key to getting my life back, Molly." He took to sitting on her sofa, crossing his legs, his eyes fixated on her, "I need to stay here. Keep under cover until I am able to unleash myself back on the world."

She bent down, picking up her shopping and dumping it on the wooden kitchen table to her right, "I'll help you, whatever you need to me to do."

It was at this point that Sherlock smiled, a genuine smile as far as she could tell, "I knew I could count on your loyalty, Molly, thank you."

"You're welcome."


	3. Chapter 3

**NOTE: Thanks again to anyone who reviewed. They really do encourage me to write this. I'm worried people aren't really finding it any good. Please let me know what you think of each chapter, because if I get anything wrong I can sort it out asap and also I know if you want to read more. **

**Chapter Three: Sherlock tells Molly to visit John. **

_**I don't own anything!**_

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It was out of choice that Molly lived where she did. It wasn't as if she struggled to pay the bills each month or sometimes missed meals because money was short. Her salary was generous for a single woman living in London and if she wanted, she could move out of her flat and live elsewhere, somewhere bigger, more picturesque, with grass instead of concrete. But it was the memories and the love she'd felt here that made her stay. _Sentiment_, Sherlock would say. The flat was her father's before her and she had moved in when he could no longer care for himself. When he died, she'd stayed, made the place her own and bought Toby to keep her company.

Stepping through the front door, the living room was directly ahead, sky blue walls with solid oak floors and shelves of medical books, romance tales, crime novels. To the left was her only bathroom, small and practical with a heavy door that dragged on the carpet as she entered. It was not her ideal pamper lounge and no place for her to take a long soothing bath, but she did her best, placing candles around to deter her eyes away from the artificial light. Her kitchen was open to the left of the front door, still the same as her father had it, mosaic style floor with a round table designed for four people (not that Molly ever really had guests to occupy the remaining seats). Her room and the small spare were situated down a narrow corridor to the left of her kitchen, beige carpets and tender chocolate brown walls.

That was the lot. She didn't have anything else other than that. No garden, no balcony, just a kind-hearted landlady who posted her letters every morning and knitted her jumpers at Christmas. She didn't compare to Mrs Hudson, but she was close enough. Molly would be sure to keep Sherlock a secret from her however, otherwise she'd bring him tea and ask if they were to be married.

Sherlock had been in her flat a matter of twelve hours now. His first night in her company, he hadn't slept in the bed she made up for him in the spare room, just sat on the sofa, tapping his fingers absentmindedly and muttering words under his breath. Molly couldn't get anything out of him. She offered him tea, coffee, even food, but eventually gave up and went to bed. He hadn't told her what she needed to do to help him, not yet. Their conversation had ended abruptly as he entered his "mind palace" and zoned out until further notice.

The morning after, she awoke, subconsciously tied up her hair in a side parting and shuffled into the kitchen in her dressing gown and slippers. Peering round the corner, she saw him reclined on the sofa, eyes closed and breathing heavy, hands placed idly on his stomach. Asleep then, she thought. A rare opportunity to stare at him without him knowing. She smiled at how delicate his features were during slumber, how peaceful he looked when his mind was calm. Sherlock's hair was ruffled, either from tossing and turning on the uncomfortable furniture, or he'd been so deep in thought at some point, he'd frantically ruffled his hair. Molly pictured herself, confident and full of female poise, walking over to him and showing him how brilliant sentiment could be. She would softly wake him from his snooze, tell him nothing else mattered at that moment and-

"You're doing it again."

Her eyes went wide, "Doing what?" Swiftly, she turned on her heel, trying to disguise the blush that clawed its way up her neck. Molly was sure he was in a deep sleep, far away in his imagination, miles from her own thoughts. How could she be so stupid? Let herself get starry-eyed over him whilst he dozed on her sofa.

"You know what." Sherlock breathed deeply and brought his hands under his chin, eyes slowly drifting open.

"Black two sugars is it-"

"Being sentimental." He scoffed, "You're all the same."

Molly ignored that last comment, flicking on the kettle and choosing two mugs from the cupboard. His words were harsh at times, but he'd said worse to her, more than once.

His hands waved in the air, "You, John, Mrs Hudson-"

"You." Molly interrupted, casually taking a glance at him to gorge his reaction.

"Me?!" Abruptly, Sherlock sat up, leaning on his arms and eyeing Molly as if she had just said Anderson was more capable of solving crime, "Don't be absurd Molly. Sentiment is a distraction from what is important."

"So you don't care about John? Why would you risk your life then?" She poured the boiling water into two mugs, one being plain brown, the other flowery. She felt a surge of confidence go through her, knowing that Sherlock couldn't be completely void of emotion, otherwise he wouldn't have faked his own death in the first place. She knew full well that he would avoid the question she'd just chucked at him, but she'd put the thought into his head and knew he'd think about it at some point, whether it was now or this evening.

"I need you to go to Baker Street, do some investigation for me," Sherlock picked up his jacket off the back off the chair and stood, swinging it over his shoulders and buttoning the front, "Go there, find out how John is being watched." Molly could visually picture the cogs turning inside his head as he began to think things through, "However John is being watched, the others are being watched the same. Cameras are too obvious. They've done that before, they won't do it again. Check out the windows, don't make yourself too noticeable. See if you can see anyone observing the flat. Oh!" He swivelled round to face her, striding towards the kitchen, "Microphones, Yes! Microphones, placed on the bookshelves, in my skull-"

Molly's face screwed up in confusion, "In your skull?"

Sherlock just chose to ignore her and continued.

"Check my violin. John won't have given it away, too many memories. He'll probably have it out on display somewhere." He picked up his coffee and sipped it before turning and pacing about the room, "Just go round, play the sympathetic role, like your just as traumatized as he is. You just want a chat."

"And what are you going to do?"

"Think."

"Okay." Molly said slightly awkwardly after a pause. She picked up her tea and shuffled passed him to get changed. Fortunately for Sherlock, she had the day off work, though whether he had considered that in the first place she couldn't tell. She picked a pair of brown trousers, accompanied with a white top and light green cardigan.

Molly pulled up outside Baker Street, sighing desolately as she switched off her engine. She'd said that she would do anything for him, do anything for the man she doted over, but here she was, outside John's flat, about to meddle with the man's feelings. Sherlock hadn't exactly asked her to mess with his head, but Molly did have to walk in there and pretend like the detective was dead and buried. Then again, she had to remember that she was there to try and save his life and he couldn't hate her for that.

The pathologist knocked lightly on the door that was permanently open. She saw John turn round, sat in his usual chair, looking glum and unsure of whether he'd actually heard someone knock.

"Molly." He grabbed his walking stick next to the chair and slowly lifted his weight.

"S-sorry, I – Mrs Hudson said it was okay to come straight up."

"Yeah, yeah that's fine." He limped over to her and gave her a smile, "Please, sit down," He gestured with his hand, "Tea? Coffee?"

"Tea, please." With another smile, John headed into the kitchen out of site and Molly subtly took a glance around the room, sitting down on the sofa by the door. She looked for any sign of a microphone or device that John might not have noticed, keeping him under the watchful eye of the devil. Nothing was obvious as far as she could tell. John was asking her random questions, hearing the clanging of tea spoons against mugs. She answered as best she could without seeming distracted, but in reality, his enquiries were going in one ear and out the other. Molly came here to do what Sherlock had asked her and she wasn't going to let him down.

"Do you take sugar?"

"No thank you." She peered over to Sherlock's chair and saw his violin placed by its side. Molly stood and walked over to it, running her fingers along the strings, imagining how his genius would be voiced through it.

John limped over with her tea, "Here you go."

"Thanks." Molly took the tea and sat down in Sherlock's chair, feeling a sense of closeness to him. The pair of them chatted like he'd asked and she played her role perfectly, looking around whenever she had the chance, without seeming too obvious. But she didn't see anything. No microphone, no camera, no person peering out through some lacy curtains from the building across the street. When John went to the toilet, she looked on the floor, pretending to drop something just in case there was someone looking from the outside. And that was when she saw it. A small black device under John's chair, tucked under bits of paper and an old mug, long forgotten about. Whipping her phone out, she texted Sherlock.

_Under John's chair. Now what?_

_Molly_

She bit her lip, hearing the toilet flush down the corridor.

_Disable it. I need to see it._

_SH_

She reached under the chair and grabbed the black mechanism. At quick glance, Molly assumed it to be some sort of phone, hopefully containing some sort of tracker. Turning it over, she pulled out the battery and shoved the lot inelegantly into her pocket. As she stood, John appeared from the toilet, smiling at her as he hobbled over. She smiled back, zipping up her coat and heading for the door.

"I've got to go now," Molly said lamely, "I need to get a few bits for Toby and get on home."

"Oh, okay." John's face dropped, almost as if he was sad to let her company go, "Sure you can't stay for one more cup?"

"I would if I could, but I have a lot to do." Her heart twisted slightly at letting him down. She hated letting people down. As he turned to sit back in his chair, Molly touched his arm, knowing she needed to give him some comfort, otherwise, she'd worry about him all the more, "John, it will be okay you know."

He frowned a little, obviously not understanding the hidden meaning behind her words, "How?"

"Just trust me, I promise you, things will only get better from here." With a smile, she left the flat, heading down the stairs without a fleeting look behind.


	4. Chapter 4

**NOTE: Thanks again to the people who have reviewed and are following. It's a real encouragement to me. If you wouldn't mind taking a second to review again, it would be really appreciated. This chapter is the first one from Sherlock's point of view. It goes back to where we last saw Sherlock. I hope that doesn't confuse anyone. Really short chapter, sorry. **

**Chapter Four: Sherlock's thoughts whilst Molly is out.**

_**I don't own anything**_

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"Okay." Molly had said in her usual awkward manner as she exited the room. Sherlock watched her pace down the corridor to her bedroom and disappear, observing her as she took a subtle glance back at him. When he heard the door click, he placed his cup down on the coffee table before seating himself neatly on her sofa, facing the blank television screen, his dark reflection appearing before him. He studied his strong cheekbones, the way his curly black hair flopped unsystematically atop his head. His eyes slowly gazed down at his sharp black suit. He'd had it tailored, years ago and willingly admitted to himself that this was the suit he favoured above all others. Sherlock had worn it when he was visited by Moriarty after the trial and had changed into it after the fall (though soon having to change into disguise after leaving the morgue). He looked at his light blue shirt underneath it, recently bought after the last one had become blood stained and discarded.

Molly reappeared from her bedroom, struggling to get her arm in the sleeve of her coat.

"I'm ready now." He didn't respond, "I'll be back soon. I-I'll buy you a few things on the way home. Shampoo, clean shirts and what not." When he didn't respond again, he saw her smile uncomfortably before heading for the door. Sherlock momentary looked at her as she turned the handle.

"Thank you, Molly." The detective turned his head back to the television, his face a mask from his true emotion. He didn't like to say it too often, but he was grateful for everything she did for him, even if at times he made her believe he didn't care. However, Molly surprised him at this point. He expected her to get all fluttery at his unusual kindness, to smile and tell him he was welcome. But instead, her face was also a mask. He couldn't quite read what emotion she was feeling, what her thoughts were at that particular time.

When the door closed, Sherlock frowned, no one around to see how he was really feeling. Molly was always so predictable to him. Everything she did, everything she thought, she was like an open book. Before the fall, he knew exactly how to get what he wanted from her. Just a small compliment and he had access to whoever was on her list for the day, had access to her lab and all her equipment. However, he found it hard to deny that things had changed somewhat. When Sherlock had utterly embarrassed her at the Christmas party, that was the first time she had been unpredictable to him. He'd thought he knew it all, thought her devotion was for another man, never once realising that her hopes for a boyfriend were in actual fact, hopes to be with him. He'd just assumed Molly was easy to manipulate, grateful for any affection a person would give her and that was why she allowed herself to be walked all over. He didn't notice that it was only he the pathologist showed such loyalty to.

Sherlock could remember the feeling inside himself when he read his name out in his head, shock, confusion, uncertainty, even guilt. He had let his guard down for once, just so he could redeem the situation, tell her he was truly sorry and give her the best present he could think of, a kiss on the cheek. The distraction of The Woman had kept him from thinking over the situation. In fact, he'd not thought about it again until Molly approached him in the lab, saw through to his raw emotion when he'd worked so hard for so many years to hide it. Sherlock hadn't even realised he was doing it, didn't even realise he was letting his guard down around her. She'd told him she was there for him and made him thank her for her the kindness she had shown him, something he hadn't really done before. That one occasion at Christmas had caused him to subconsciously relax around her, let her see him as he was, a man, not a genius.

The fall. That was when he realised how significant she was going to become in his life. Sherlock knew that Moriarty thought Molly insignificant to him, knew he thought that the detective didn't really care about her, just used her to further himself in a situation. But Moriarty had been wrong. And it was the devils mistake that saved his life.

_You were wrong you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay._

Molly was the only person he could turn to in his time of need. There was no John, or Mrs Hudson, or Lestrade. Their lives were in serious danger and he couldn't risk them getting hurt. When it hit him, the realisation of what he had to do to save his friends, the first person that came into his head was Molly. He abandoned John and went straight to the lab, knowing she was a hard worker and would still be there. Again, for the first time in a long time, he showed her how he was really feeling, something he rarely even did with John. And yet, there Sherlock was, scared that his own voice would break his conduct, scared about what he would have to do, scared at how human he sounded.

She played her role perfectly in his death. Did everything he asked when he asked, with no hesitation or fickleness. And after it was all over, she didn't beg him to stay like he had thought, just watched him go, knowing he couldn't stay, whether he wished to or not.

Sherlock had gone abroad, partly due to the need to keep a low profile and also to try and untangle with web that Moriarty had solidly weaved. He'd fought, lied, tricked and schemed, but he was willing to do it to get back his life, do the right thing and save the people who mattered most to him. And now he was back in England, in Molly's flat, so close to beating Moriarty at his own game. All he had to do was make sure no one was watching them.

His phone buzzed, pushing him from his train of thought and back to what he'd asked Molly to do.

_Under John's chair. Now what?_

_Molly_

Sherlock knew she wouldn't let him down. She'd found the microphone, hopefully making it possible for Sherlock to track whoever was watching and rip them to shreds.

_Disable it. I need to see it._

_SH_

The first thing he did was pace. He paced and paced before he took a seat at her kitchen table, fingers tapping on the table before he stood again and paced. Sherlock knew that it may not be a guaranteed lead to his enemy, a direct lead to saving his friends, but it was a start and hopefully, the beginning of his old life.

He heard the key grate into the lock, a click and then it opened swiftly. Sherlock was stood by the window as he turned to face her, Molly's face red from her need to rush to get back here, strands of hair beginning to come loose from her pony tail.

"Sher-"

"Shh." He commanded, walking over to her and holding out his hand. She stared at him for a moment, mouth slightly agape, before reaching into her pocket and fishing out the device. Molly's fingers brushed lightly against Sherlock's as the black object was placed in his hand, purposefully he assumed, suspicions confirmed when a blush crept its way across her cheeks and she turned away. He couldn't help but feel a slight warmth at her touch, a wave course its way from his head to toes. Nothing to do with sentiment or feelings, Sherlock told himself. Just the persistent need for a friendly touch, something he'd been distant from for so long, since the fall.

Turning away from her, he studied the device, placing the battery back in its place and switching it on. The detective momentarily turned to look at Molly, a knowing look passing her features.


	5. Chapter 5

**NOTE: Thank you again to all who have reviewed and followed. I'm updating sooner now than last time because I want to get deeper into the story and get to the main plot. I'm really enjoying writing this at the moment. But I do have college work to do at the same time, so it will be weekends mainly when I update. **

**Chapter Five: Sherlock's thoughts about the women in his life and an unexpected visitor. **

_**I own nothing at all.**_

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Sometimes, he had to admit to himself, that the only person who had ever come close to being as superior minded as himself, was Moriarty. Sherlock would never want him to reappear, didn't like to mingle with his arch enemy, but sometimes it was no fun without him. Sherlock got bored with day to day life. He needed thrill, excitement, something to get his heart racing, his body shaking with anticipation. Now he had no one, not a soul he knew that was as smart as he. No one challenged him, Moriarty was quite evidently dead and The Woman was thankfully long gone, with any luck, never to be seen again.

The Woman. Well, she was not on Sherlock's intellectual level, elegant and sophisticated, yes, but still, not on his level. She liked to think she was like him, that she could control him, though he knew her game and knew how to beat her. She on the other hand, knew him very little. She'd gotten wrapped up in her own little game, so much so, she became a slave to sentimentality. Just when she believed she'd gotten through to him, when he let her believe so, Sherlock blew her out of the water and knocked her down, beaten her like he beat everyone.

She was the first woman in his life that he had felt drawn to. Not in any sexual manner, no, just the fact he couldn't figure her out at an immediate glance. She'd sat there, bare, thinking she could coo him of his virginal ways, the only way she knew how to get what she wanted, through flirtation and sex. Eventually Sherlock had figured her out and in the process of doing so, had inadvertently developed a foreign feeling towards her. Not love, not lust. Sherlock just felt the need to save her from her own execution. The Woman had taken this act of heroism into the wrong context. They'd escaped, found a safe hiding place and she in turn, had asked him to dinner. Sherlock had ignored her, truly not interested in her invitation and told her that this would most likely be their last meeting. If she expected to survive, he expected her to stay under the radar, hidden from view, somewhere far away from London.

Clearly, The Woman had sparked something in him, otherwise he would have left her for dead in a lonely world. He was glad she was alive, though he still didn't want anything to do with her. That chapter in his life, that weak moment towards sentiment where he thought of caring was over, never to return, locked up with no existing key. He would return to his normal life, his flat, his work, completely void of feelings towards a woman. It was not a safe emotion to have close to his side.

Molly was sat to his right on the sofa. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, watching as she frowned, frustrated. She was searching the internet like he had requested, never failing at his wishes and forever there to help him. Sherlock held the device in his hand, scrutinizing it thoroughly, silence permitted whilst the battery was in, just in case ears were still on the prowl. He took a subtle glance at her again, wondering what it was that made her drawn to him. He was sure his actions would have deterred her away, any woman away for that matter. Sherlock had not encouraged her, or so he had thought. If anything, he had been cold towards her, unfeeling, telling Molly how it was rather than telling her what she wanted to here.

She was a complete contrast to The Woman. Instead of being suave and seductive, Molly was clumsy, daft, but loyal. She didn't feel the need to dress herself up to impress, or use sex as a weapon. Instead, she impressed the detective through her understanding, her ability to break down someone's barriers and comfort them without them realising fully, the kindness she bestowed. His original intentions of befriending the pathologist were to gain access to her equipment, use her for his own benefit, how Moriarty saw their relationship before the fall. He'd found her easy to manipulate, easy to control and she never questioned his actions, no matter how strange they were. Though, overtime, she proved herself to be smart, devoted and worth his time. Sherlock trusted her wholeheartedly and quite frankly, it worried him. Worried him because he felt a connection to her that he had never really felt before. Sure, Sherlock felt connected to Mrs Hudson and John, even Lestrade. But with Molly, it was something different. She had done something to him that nobody had done before, made him relax around someone else with ease, without even realising.

Sherlock didn't show people his emotions. He wasn't completely void of it, but he didn't let it occupy his mind like average people did. He kept it secret in his head, away from anyone who could use it to weaken him. Molly Hooper. The pathologist. The woman that counted. The woman he trusted. She had somehow managed to forge a key and unlock the box within his head. She'd looked inside, pieced together its contents and stored the information for her keeping. Sherlock couldn't fathom how she had managed it. She probably didn't know herself what she had done. No one had done it before. But now he was here, asking for her help again and not doubting for a minute that she would reject him, all because she had gotten deeper into his mind than anyone had ever done before.

They worked silently together, Molly online trying to track the whereabouts of Moriarty's men and Sherlock putting the device under Molly's home microscope. The phone did have a tracker and Sherlock would be able to find at least some connection to whoever was watching, maybe even be able to-

There was a knock at the door.

They turned to look at each other, Molly's eyes wide with fear, clearly wondering whether someone knew their current situation. Sherlock pulled the battery out of the back and shoved it in his pocket, collecting anything that was evidence of his presence. He pulled on his suit jacket, picked up his empty mug and they stood simultaneously.

"Wait in my room." Molly whispered and the detective did not hesitate for a second.

Sherlock stepped quietly into Molly's bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could listen. His mind wasn't distracted at the curiosity of her personal space, as he had taken the opportunity to rummage through her belongings when he had first arrived, before she even knew he was back in London. He'd deduced that her nights were lonely, where she would let Toby curl up next to her and they would watch a film, or television programs she'd missed whilst out at work. She was a girl of routine, a clear indication she was not one for going out and meeting random strangers. A strangely settling thought. The idea of Molly meeting someone uncouth was a disturbing thought to Sherlock. He didn't wish to see anyone significant in his life get hurt and so knowing she kept herself safe was almost a relief. Though, Molly did have hopes of entertaining a man in this room, however slim the chances and this was indicated through the black lacy underwear she had tucked idly at the back of her knicker draw. Molly was never one for subtlety, Sherlock thought, at least not to him.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"Are you Miss Hooper?" A man, reporter. Been in his job several years, evident from the confident tone of his voice. Doesn't dislike interrupting people's lives, rather, he gets some form of enjoyment out of it. Never been promoted, but that may be intentional. Definitely not married.

"Who's asking?" He could sense fear and hesitance within her voice.

"Terry Dean, reporter for the Daily Mirror. _Miss_ Hooper, would you be willing to answer a few questions for me? It's not too late is it? Only just gone nine." Slime ball. Sherlock knew it and he couldn't even see him. He was probably in the process of a midlife crisis, a round belly from the alcohol consumption and spent his evenings playing rounds of darts at the pub every night. A smoker, obvious from the croak in his voice.

"W-well actually, I was about to go to bed. Sorry." He heard a foot lodge itself between the doorway, Molly blatantly trying to rid herself of yet another interrogation.

"Now now Miss Hooper-"

"Molly, actually." There was a pause after this. Sherlock had been leant on the wall by the open door, though soon turned to peer through the small gap, intrigued at Molly's poise. He couldn't see the entrance at all, or Molly, but he felt the need to be ready in case things went pear-shaped.

"She never said you were feisty-"

"Who didn't?" Her voice was wavering. Her ability to stay strong was becoming unravelled.

There was another pause, "Have you got visitors? I thought you were going to bed?"

"I am."

"But I can see a pair of mans shoes by your sofa over there." Sherlock looked down at his feet. How could he have been so stupid? He had picked up his jacket and the stupid flowery mug with a Maine Coon cat on, but had somehow left his shoes in plain sight.

"T-they're my dad's shoes." Better than saying boyfriend, he supposed. That would be bait for another story.

"Oh, is that right? But I read that your dad is dead? In the Sun newspaper last week." Typical, Sherlock scoffed. Molly was being exploited because they had gotten everything they could out of him. He sincerely doubted also, that they could get anything out of John. He would be a brick wall to any reporters, obviously why this man was targeting Molly.

"He is. But I keep them there for personal reasons."

"Sentiment? Gives you a sense that your daddy is still alive?" Now Sherlock understood he was harsh at times, but he knew not to push someone about the death of a loved one.

"I would like you to leave now."

"Why? You hiding something? They're not really your dad's shoes are they? You've got a bloke in here-"

"Even if I did, Mr Dean, I'm afraid it's none of your business and I wouldn't tell a thing to you!"

"Ow!" Sherlock heard Molly kick the man's foot from the threshold, the door slamming hard in the reporter's face. Feisty indeed. Not the predictable Molly he had become accustomed to.

Sherlock didn't leave her room, just walked over to her bed and sat down on the lacy cream coloured covers. He waited for her to securely lock the door and pad her way to find him. When she did, Molly closed the door behind her, resting against it, clearly exhausted from the experience. Before she said anything, she gestured to his pocket, wondering whether she was allowed to speak, or whether she was best to keep quiet.

"Yes." Was all he said. She sighed with relief and sat down next to him, lying back and rubbing her face softly. He didn't turn to look at her, just pulled the device from his pocket, placing it on the chaise longue at the end of the bed and removing his jacket.

"I messed up didn't I?"

"What makes you think that?" He undid the cuffs of his shirt and began to roll them up, his mind half on what she was saying and half on the man that had just disturbed them.

"He thinks I'm hiding something." She tutted to herself, clearly forgetting that it was Sherlock who left his shoes out, not her. He wasn't going to correct her on the matter however.

"You are. A dead man." He grinned at her jokingly before removing his phone from his pocket, placing it next to the device. This phone, he had acquired whilst away. He couldn't keep his old one. It was evidence, tucked away in a plastic bag somewhere, either the police station or at the morgue, "You've never been one for lying Molly, or joking for that matter."

"Thanks." Molly said dryly, "I've gotten pretty good at lying for you these past few weeks."

With a thoughtful pause, he rose from the comfort of her bed, walking over to the door and turning the handle, "Get some rest. I'll need your help in the morning." Molly raised herself into a sitting position, not hiding the fact she was enjoying his company.

"Are you going to get some rest?" Sherlock glanced at the device he had left by her bed, wondering whether it would be even possible for him to get some sleep.

"Goodnight Molly."

"Goodnight Sherlock."


	6. Chapter 6

**NOTE: Thank you so so much for your reviews, they overwhelm me, thank you! First thing here is an apology. Firstly, because of the shortness of this chapter (I will be updating with a longer chapter that is getting more into the story at the weekend and also it will be complete Molly/Sherlock interaction) and secondly because I'm worried that Sherlock is out of character here. Please let me know if you think so, so that I can correct it if it is the case. **

**Chapter Six: Sherlock continues his search for his enemies. **

_**I don't own anything!**_

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As foreseen, sleep eluded him. It usually did when there was a case on his mind. This being Sherlock's leading case so far, he doubted he would get sleep for another week. Molly was so naïve, standard minded, sleeping more often and longer than she needed. Her mind was wasted like everyone else in the world and he only wished people didn't enjoy the comfort of their bed so much. The world would be so much more advanced.

Sherlock led on the bed that Molly had made up for him. It was a single bed to fit the small box room, decorated with cream walls and emerald green covers. He tapped his fingers on his chest, wanting to continue working though not wanting to disturb Molly from her slumber and make her grumpy. He'd left the device in her room, partly on purpose so he might have an excuse to wake her and continue the work they had started. They had been making progress. Molly had been back tracking where the device had come from and Sherlock himself was looking for clues actually on the object. With a couple more hours work, they could running to a taxi, driving to where the spiders were nesting and be squashing them all. Time was being wasted just lying here and sleeping.

The detective decided he had two options. He could sit here doing nothing, or he could be one step closer to Baker Street. _The latter, obviously_. Sherlock swung himself off the bed and pulled open the oak door, padding across the small hallway with bare feet to her bedroom opposite. He opened the door quietly and closed it behind him, sitting on the chaise longue. Molly was breathing heavily, the side lamp still on from her earlier reading, the book still gripped loosely in her right hand. The side of his mouth curled up slightly at the sight of her, hair sprawled out around her face, her lips slightly parted, sleeping peacefully. Whenever he saw her in the lab, she was always so timid, hair tied up, symbolic of her tame nature. Here however, her hair was loose, free from her fear of judgement and a part of Molly people rarely got to see.

He stood and walked over to her bedside table to switch off the light, now only the streetlamp from outside emitting any glow. Sherlock picked up the device and placed the battery inside, watching as the little red light flicked on. It was such a simple thing. Almost like a phone but much more basic. There was a screen that had little on it as far as data was concerned, but luckily, there had been a tracker. A tracker was all he needed to trace the whereabouts of the venomous creatures expecting his return. He sat on the chaise longue again, picking up his phone and using the internet on it to continue his search. Molly been long forgotten about now. His mind had cradled itself where it was most comfortable and once he was there, it was difficult to pull himself away.

The internet had brought up a few names of associates connected heavily with Moriarty, criminals that were clever at dodging the radar of the police, but not him. Oh no, Sherlock was much more intelligent than all he worked with, put together. The device he had here was connected to another elsewhere, where someone must be listening in on it to make sure nothing too suspicious was going on. He knew he had limited time however. The listener would have become accustomed to familiar noise that came from the microphone and would be alert if there was something not quite right. That was why Sherlock needed the device to be on more often than not, to keep insignificant noises playing through the microphone.

An hour passed, two even, Sherlock couldn't be sure, but his search never slowed pace. More names, more criminals, some he'd heard of, some not. One name in particular, Ivan Morass, according to police records, had taken up residence near Baker Street. He'd moved in not long after the fall and had been known by neighbours to live a very secluded life. Not being too hasty, Sherlock continued looking through the police documents, pass code that of a novice. He needed to have a plan before he found the man and killed him there and then. But it was just as he was searching the man's criminal history that he heard someone stir behind him.

"Sherl-" Before she had the chance to finish, he'd flung himself across the bed and covered his hand over her mouth, body pressed flush against hers. Molly's eyes went wide, evidently wondering whether it was all a dream, or whether she'd died and gone to heaven. Sherlock couldn't ponder about it now. He used his free hand to remove the battery before throwing it down haphazardly on the bed, frustration clear through his heavy breathing. He dropped his head down beside hers, removing his hand from her mouth but not moving his weight. Sherlock wanted to swear every expletive he could think of, wanted to punch the walls, or preferably shoot them. Everything he had done these months, all the pain and anger he'd gone through to get his life back, could have been thrown out the window in that exact moment. If the listener had caught what she had said, all that was significant in his life, all he had worked so hard for, could be gone. For all he knew, Mrs Hudson, John and Lestrade could be shot dead by now.

"I'm sorry." Was all Molly said, so faintly, he wasn't sure if she'd actually said it. He couldn't be mad at her. He wanted to blame her, tell her he was mad at her. But he couldn't. She'd done so much for him in recent weeks, he'd come to rely on her somewhat, even if she did make stupid mistakes.

Instead, he lifted his weight off her and ran his hands through his hair, pacing about the room before sitting by her feet. Molly looked stricken with shame, clearly wondering whether she'd accidentally caused the deaths of three people. Without turning to look at her, he spoke, resting his elbows on his knees and bringing his hands under his chin.

"As soon as daylight hits that window, you will go to Baker Street, check on John and Mrs Hudson, check they're okay and come straight back here."

She sat herself up straight, pulling the covers to cover her face slightly, "I will, I promise."


	7. Chapter 7

**NOTE: I hope this is okay. I'm starting to get more into the plot now which is fun and I hope also, it is fun for those of you who read. Please review as I worry so much that people aren't liking it.**

**Chapter Seven: Sherlock figures it out**

_**I don't own a thing**_

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Molly did as Sherlock had asked, no hesitation in sight. Leaving her flat dead on nine, somewhat glad to with the detective's currently insulting mood, she had casually visited John again, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade to make sure they were okay. The pathologist had to fight so hard to contain her excitement when Mrs Hudson opened the door and simply said, "Hello Dear," her sweet smile broadening over her face. It was like music to her ears, beauty to her eyes. She wanted to squeal with delight, hug her tightly and tell her she was glad she was still alive. But to do that would cause suspicion to any prying eyes and most likely worry the poor lady half to death.

She hurried back to the flat, bags in hand with supplies for the man staying in her modest home. Sherlock had been with her a matter of days now, un-showered and although Molly didn't mind his smell, she was sure he would be in need of a wash sooner or later. A pack of clean shirts, hopefully the right size and some socks, because that was one thing Molly was unable to stand, smelly feet. About to turn the key in the lock, a voice startled her from behind.

"So there is a man staying with you then, _Miss_ Hooper." She turned to find Terry Dean, round fat belly, hands in pockets, a grin plastered on his rosy red face.

"No. I-I…" Molly really didn't know what to say. She glanced down at the _M&S_ bag in her hands, wondering if he'd been able to see the contents inside. She knew she couldn't fool this man, knew he knew she was lying, but all she could do was try and make something feasible up, for Sherlock's sake, "I live on my own."

He laughed, "Do you now?" Terry stepped towards her, Molly inevitably pinning herself to the door as he towered over her, "Are you sure about that?"

"I am." Molly cleared her throat, could hear her heart in her ears, her breath becoming rapid with the fear of this man, stood too far into her personal space. She hoped and prayed that Sherlock would be nearby to help if the situation happened to turn ugly. She wasn't asking him to expose himself for her like that, to reveal himself just to save her, just knock the man out and drop him out the window. Hopefully though, she was strong enough to handle it, she liked to think so anyway.

"You see, _Miss_ Hooper," He grinned at her deviously, raising a hand to rest on the door by the side of her face, "I've been doing this job a _long_ time now, and if you think you can fool me, you're wrong." His eyes travelled across her features making her feel physically sick. He was too close to her face, way too close and it was times like this she wished she had listened to her mum, always nagging about keeping some form of spray in her bag for emergencies, "That is why she hired me. I am the _best_ at what I do."

There it was again, the 'she' that he mentioned last time. His boss, maybe? But why would she 'hire' him when he's already working for her? It made no sense. Molly couldn't breathe, no words came out of her mouth. She wanted to tell him to mind his own business, tell him he had no business in her life, but she didn't want to give him any idea that he was right.

"Now, I can tell her what I want to tell her, or you can tell me the truth."

"I'm not telling you anything." Molly attempted to turn around in the small space and go inside her flat, but Terry grabbed her arm and kept her firmly in place. She winced faintly, the grip of his hand almost certainly bruising her arm, "Let me go."

"I'll be back you know," He moved ever so slightly closer to her face, "and you might not be so lucky next time."

"I could say the same to you." She shot back, not really sure if her statement was sufficient, though didn't want Terry thinking he'd got the better of her. He laughed at this, his stale breath hitting her face, cigarettes, beer and what she could only guess was the smell of rotting teeth. Stepping away from her, he continued to grin, heading down the stairs and out of site. She released a breath, head falling into her hand before turning to unlock the door.

When she crossed the threshold, Molly found Sherlock stood directly behind the door, obviously listening to the events unfolding outside. As soon as she met his stare, she didn't want him there. She wanted her own space back so she could let out her emotions without being criticised. All she wanted to do was put on a soppy film, cry about it and forget about that slimy sod _Terry Dean_ and his stupid boss.

With a sigh, she passed the bag of supplies to Sherlock, keeping her eyes away from his perfect form, "Please leave me alone," She saw him frown in the corner of her eye, "I've got to get ready for work."

"Don't people usually want to talk about this sort of thing?"

"No Sherlock, no I don't want to talk about it, I want to cry about it, but I can't, so I'm going to work." Molly immediately regretted speaking to him like that. He was her every being and didn't like the idea of him thinking she was mad at him, "What I mean is…" Her sentence trailed off, unable to finish what she wanted to say. Tears were prickling her eyes, betraying her in front of the one man who despised sentiment. Instead, she threw a strained smile in his direction and headed to her bedroom.

Molly reached the safety of her room, dropping her handbag on the divan and yanking off her coat. Toby scrambled from under the bed, purring and meowing as she reached to stroke him. He was such a softy, grabbing the attention of everyone who entered her flat and loved by everyone whose legs he wrapped himself around. She picked him up so she could drop him outside the door and get changed, but was surprised to see Sherlock waiting right on the doorway.

Keeping her hold on Toby, she rubbed her forehead, never usually feeling so frustrated. All she wanted to do was please this man, but right now, she didn't have the energy, not after her encounter with that reporter. She just wanted to be alone, "Sherlock, I'm sorry but I really just need five minutes, please."

"Terry Dean, reporter, Daily Mirror."

"I know."

"He's been hired to find me." This caused Molly to look up at him, shirt sleeves rolled up, hands casually in his pockets.

"What?"

"The device," Sherlock had no sense of spatial awareness, barging past her and walking about her room, "It's a distraction, a diversion to keep my mind away from what is important."

Molly's eyes widened, "So it's not a microphone?"

"No it is." The detective walked towards her, eyes fixed with hers, "It is, it's not to listen to John. It's to listen to me. They know I'm alive, the want me to find them. They've planted it there, knowing I'd send you, send someone to find something." His hands ruffled his hair, "How could I have been so _stupid_? All they wanted is confirmation I'm alive and I've played right into their hands. They wanted me to find Ivan Morass-"

"Wait, who?" Molly let Toby down.

"They want me to meet him. Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock placed his hands on her shoulders, shaking her gently, "Terry Dean is being paid to find information, clues, evidence. They knew nothing about you at first. They knew I would send someone to get the device but they didn't know it was you. Now they know exactly how I faked my death."

"So why haven't they killed John and everyone?"

"Because they don't need to. They've got the message out that they want me to reveal myself to them." He laughed, though Molly didn't believe it was anything other than annoyance, "Molly, don't you see? We're one step ahead of them. They don't know I know yet. They'll assume I'm still working on the device, still distracted."

"So what do we do now then?" He moved away from her then, going straight to her bedside drawer, pulling out a pad and pen, "Hey, how did you know I kept-"

"Molly." Was all he said in his deep grumble, the pathologist understanding it was too simple a deduction for him. He would just know without having to root around her belongings. She watched as he scribbled something on a piece of paper, before pulling a fifty pound note from his pocket and wrapping it around the note.

"There's a homeless girl who begs around the hospital." He grabbed her hand and shoved the note into her palm, the sensation of his bare skin sending a tingle up her arm, "Her name is Ellen. Act as though you feel sorry for her, put the money in her tin and walk away."

"Okay." Molly looked at his hand still wrapped around hers, wondering if he'd just forgotten he was still clutching her tightly, "And then what?"

"She'll give you further instructions." Sherlock grinned then, "This is genius. We're getting there Molly. Back to normal." He sighed and left the room, leaving Molly feeling a sense of loss, knowing he was unaffected by the skin contact, oblivious to the sensation she had gotten from it.

Walking to work was a nerve-racking experience. She did as Sherlock had asked again, pretended to be sympathetic to the young girl and handed her the money, but couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her the whole way. Molly assumed it was Terry, following her for clues and what not. She acted normal, knowing she couldn't give any sign away that she knew. She cut up several bodies that day, one being a young boy aged twelve. Molly was good at her job, handled it very well, it just upset her greatly when young people were involved in her line of business, it just didn't seem right.

Leaving work just past five, Ellen was stood waiting for her, shaking her tin and asking for spare change. She knew it must have been something to do with the note so she reached for her purse, pulled out some pound coins and dropped them in. At the same time Ellen dropped a note in her purse, smiled and walked away. She didn't bother to read it, knowing it would be for Sherlock and instead, headed to her home.

She found the detective showering when she arrived back, the sound of water splashing to the floor and the squirting of shower gel into his hand. The pathologist shook the images that were forming in her head, knowing it was not the time.

"Sherlock?" She knocked on the bathroom door, waiting as she heard the tap switch off and rustling, before he appeared before her. His hair was dripping, chest exposed and a white towel wrapped low around his waist. The images that were forming before appeared again, though this time for real. It was too much for her not to look. She drifted her eyes over him, before clearing her throat and handing him the note, too scared to make eye contact with him. The detective took the note from her and grinned. She looked at him as he handed the note back, catching his smirk as the door closed once again.

Turning her attention to the note, it read:

_I knew it _

_Your Brother _


	8. Chapter 8

**NOTE: Hello and thanks again for reviews! This is the first chapter where there are both perspectives, both Sherlock and Molly. I hope no one minds. Please let me know what you think because I worry about every word I write. **

**Chapter Eight: Sherlock and Mycroft are reunited and Molly mopes again. **

_**I own nothing!**_

* * *

It was all quite simple really. Sherlock had sent his loyal pathologist off to contact his homeless network, who in turn had found a way to contact his mocking brother and give him the message that lives were in serious danger. In response, his oh-so-smart brother had answered back with the humorous comment, "I knew it," as if he had never really been convinced that Sherlock had committed suicide, like he had known all along that it had been his plan to fake his own death. Sherlock didn't exactly want to have to ask for his brother's help, but if he was honest, he wasn't entirely sure he would manage the whole thing on his own. He had Molly of course, who would not fail him in any matter he was sure. However, there was only so much they could do as a team and Mycroft had the connections Sherlock needed at this current time.

When there had been another knock at the door, Molly had told him to hide again, worry of it being Terry Dean written in her eyes. Though, he knew who it was and why they were here. It certainly wasn't Terry Dean, nor was it Mycroft. _No, that would be too suspicious_. Instead, his brother had sent an ambulance, a team and a body bag, to collect him from Molly's flat. Working deep within the government, Mycroft had connections, would be able to make a fake story of someone dying within Molly's apartment building that would be in the newspapers the next morning. This gave Sherlock a way out of the flat and access to the help of his brother. And it also gave Terry Dean, who was hovering across the street, as well as Moriarty's men no reason to think things had changed.

In Sherlock's mind, this was it. Within days, maybe even hours, he would be out of this flat and back to his normal life, living in Baker Street and continuing to solve the crimes of the underworld. Mycroft would help him bring down the men working for Moriarty and then the detective himself would go and surprise John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Watch as they praised and greeted him, glad to see that he was still alive.

He turned to Molly before getting in the bag, a somewhat sombre look on her features. He couldn't understand the sadness she felt in that moment, couldn't fathom why she looked at him as if she were never going to see him again. He was getting his life back, shouldn't she be happy for him? He'd enjoyed their time together, but in all honesty, this was not _his_ life, nor was it what he wanted. He wanted to be running around the streets of London, deciphering clues and getting that same old thrill of working it all out. He didn't want to be stuck here, living in domestic bliss with a woman who...Sherlock's mind went blurred. He wanted to conjure up reasons to not stay here with her, reasons why it would be intolerable to live with her. But for some unfathomable reason, all he could think about was everything she had done for him recently. Molly Hooper had devoted the last few weeks of her life to him and him only, without expecting anything in return. Other than John, he didn't know who else would do something like that for him.

Climbing in the bag, a man zipped it up and wheeled him from the flat. When he next saw light, he saw the face of Mycroft, peering over him like he was a mischievous child that had run away because he'd been naughty. As much as they resented one another, they both couldn't help but smile, knowing that things could begin to move down the right track again.

"Hello brother." were the first words he spoke. He gave Sherlock a helping hand, pulling him from the bag and helping him to stand.

"Mycroft."

"I suppose my first question ought to be how you pulled this one off," He walked over to his desk, pouring two whiskies into crystal glasses and handing one to Sherlock, who immediately placed it down on a nearby table, "Though I am sure Dr Hooper, whom you are canoodling with, plays a colossal part." The detective chose to ignore the comment about his pathologist and went straight to the point.

"John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. They're all in danger. I was made to jump by Moriarty, who said that if I didn't kill myself, they would die."

"Well, no one can say you don't care." His brother said derisively, "I'm not sure I would be willing to jump off a building for you." He smiled teasingly, seating himself on his desk chair whilst Sherlock paced about the room.

"I need you to help me remove the threat."

"And do you know what the threat is?"

Sherlock walked forward and leant on the desk, staring his brother directly in the eye, "Ivan Morass. He moved in across from Baker Street a few weeks back."

"I know. We've had our eye on him for a while now." Mycroft linked his fingers together, leaning casually back in his chair, "What is your plan, dear brother?"

"I haven't got one yet," Sherlock grudgingly admitted, "That's where you come in, _brother_."

"I see," He reached for a file on his desk, opening it and turning it so Sherlock could see, "This is Mr Morass, he is the man you need taking care of. Though, you must think me mad if you believe I will let you play any part in this."

"What?"

Mycroft stood and pressed a button on the wall behind him, "Lives are on the line Sherlock, not just your nearest and dearest, but yourself and Dr Hooper." A man walked in, dressed in a black suit, "You will continue to live under the radar with Miss Hooper until you hear from me again and you will not under any circumstances leave that apartment, do I make myself clear?"

Sherlock said nothing, knowing that he wasn't going to win this one.

"Good. I will take care of everything. In the meantime, why not get to know Molly? She's a lovely girl and would make a lovely companion." Sherlock scowled at his brother for a second before turning and heading for the door.

"Oh and Sherlock," The detective turned slightly to face him, knowing it would just be another insult in his direction, "There is one matter that continues to baffle me. Why is it that you put your life in this girl's hands, you trust this Molly Hooper enough to keep your secret and yet she was not a target of Moriarty's?" Mycroft sipped his drink, "I find that odd, don't you?"

Without responding, Sherlock headed out of the room, choosing to block out the laughter that came from within his brother's office.

* * *

If Molly really thought about it, the years that she had known Sherlock, since the first time he'd walked into her lab and asked to use her equipment, that same charming smile he still used now, she'd been on a cloud, away with the fairies and not truly with the real world. She didn't know what it was about him that made her so drawn to his persona, Molly just knew she'd always love the man the world hated, even if he would never return it, even if he found someone else and so did she.

Love was a word she'd never used until he came along. Fair enough, at the age of fourteen she had thought she was in love with Henry White, the boy who bullied her relentlessly throughout her high school years, but after Molly saw him chasing other girls around the yard, it was clear he wasn't the man for her. She'd dated men throughout her college and university years, even after she'd met Sherlock, though none of them amounted to her expectations of what love really was.

When he walked into that room, smiled at her, his deep voice vibrating through her soul, she knew instantly what love was. It haunted her every being, unable to sleep or eat when she realised he was not the kind of man to date. Sherlock was married to the job and always would be. Irene Adler had broken Molly's heart. She'd seen the way Sherlock observed her dead body and knew who she was. They'd had relations, she could tell and it felt as though someone had painfully sliced her open and shredded her heart into tiny pieces. Molly wanted to be Irene Adler, she wanted so desperately to catch the eye of Sherlock, however Miss Adler had managed it and be with Sherlock the same way she had. But Molly knew a timid girl like herself would never be good enough for a genius.

How belittled she had felt when the detective had glanced at her before he left. She knew he was taking one last glance at her before things returned to normal. Just like she always did, her feelings for this man had gotten the better of her. They'd grabbed her by the arm and made her run down a path she knew was a dead end. It was all a cruel joke. He'd only been living with her a few days, but she had become accustomed to hearing his voice and seeing his jacket swung on the back of the sofa. Molly had hoped maybe she meant something to him, he'd shown the odd sign or two, but no. Clearly she was to become a cat lady, never to be loved like she deserved.

Molly walked to her kitchen, grabbing a wine glass and a bottle of rosé, gulping down a glass or two, before carrying it over to her sofa and switching on the television. Maybe she'd buy Toby a friend. She'd convert the spare room into a cat sanctuary, with all the walls being scratching posts and curtains designed so the cats could climb up them without them coming off the rails. There would be a fake fish tank in there with fake fish and-

"Molly?" The pathologist jumped from her skin, the wine she'd just gulped making her cough, "Molly, stop moping and open the door, _now_."

"Sherlock? What?" Hurrying to the door she unlocked it, the detective immediately striding past her, glancing at the wine glass, to the television, to her. She wished now she'd told him to wait so she could clear up the evidence of her sulking, "What's going on? I presumed you wouldn't be coming back."

"So did I." Ouch. Clearly he didn't want to be here and things hadn't gone his way, "Mycroft thinks he's so superior. He thinks he can take care of this whole thing on his own. Damn _brother_." Molly put the latch back on the door, wrapped her jumper around herself and stepped towards him.

"What's the plan then?"

Sherlock laughed mockingly, "Oh if only I knew. He won't let me be involved. He says it's too dangerous for me to do anything." His face screwed up before he yanked off his scarf and coat, chucking them on the sofa with anger, "If he thinks I can just sit here and do nothing, _nothing_, whilst he's out fixing all of this, he's wrong." He laughed again, "He expects me to stay here until I hear from him, no chance Mycroft."

"Sherlock," Molly felt awkward. She always wanted to make him feel good, but she even knew herself it was a big risk him trying to save his friends himself, "I don't mean to put you down-"

He stared at her, "Then don't."

She sighed, "But maybe you should listen to your brother. There are a lot of lives at stake here, even yours and mine." Molly shuffled awkwardly on her feet, "You want your friends to live, maybe you should let Mycroft take charge, just this once."

As if he was processing her words, he continued to look her directly in the eye, slipping his hands into his pockets, "You won't like me when I'm bored."

"Oh I'm sure I will." Molly said giddily, a childlike smile gracing her face, not thinking about what she had just said. On realisation, she looked to the floor, clearing her throat and grabbing the bottle of wine, "I'll just be in my room if you need me..."


	9. Chapter 9

**NOTE: Thank you ever so much for the reviews! And I'm sorry it's taken so long to update, I've been busy with coursework. Things seem to be going downhill for Molly here but it's not long before things will be looking positive for her. **

**Chapter Nine: Sherlock is in need of entertainment and Mycroft texts Sherlock.**

_**I wish I owned something, but I don't**_

* * *

If someone had said to Molly, that Sherlock Holmes would one day be living with her, eating her food and sleeping in her flat, she would have called them silly. If someone had said he would be sat by her side, sipping coffee whilst shouting at the television, she would have called them despicable. But in actual fact, this was what was happening in Molly Hooper's life at this very moment. She, the timid pathologist who had never lived with any kind of man other than her father, was now living with the man who she revolved her life around, the man who occupied her every thought and feeling.

However, things weren't exactly how she had dreamt them to be. When Molly had imagined this scenario over and over in her head, Sherlock was sleeping in her bed, cooking her meals when she arrived home from a long shift and he'd kiss her, trailing clothes to the bedroom, making sweet, sweet love to her. She was not sat next to him, unable to hear her program because he was shouting, having to buy certain foods because he didn't like what was in her fridge and keep him occupied at three in the morning.

That wasn't to say she didn't enjoy having him around. In fact, she really enjoyed it, seeing him in the morning, just woken up. Seeing him asleep, stood in the kitchen sipping coffee. Molly had been online shopping, buying him more suits and shirts, socks and underwear, all of which he had kindly paid for. She didn't often shop online, but with the current situation, she thought it best if she didn't come home with a load of men's clothes, otherwise she'd have to deal with Terry Dean again.

Although Sherlock hadn't specified for her to buy him pyjamas, she had, and a dressing gown. He lounged in them most of the time. Molly had had a long shift at work, and came back to find him sat in the exact same spot he'd been in when she'd left in the morning. Asking him if he'd even moved, he told her he didn't need to move whilst he was thinking.

Today was a Tuesday, and Sherlock had been living with her a week. Molly had only one step over the threshold and the detective was in her face, pulling her through the door and holding her in place.

"Molly, you need to do something for me, anything for me." He held her by the shoulders, pushing the door closed with his right hand.

"What?"

"I'm going mad. I'm not allowed out, don't have anything to do." His hair hung down in front of his eyes, "Molly, please explain to me why a single woman living in a small flat, with very few friends has forty-two mugs?"

The pathologist frowned with confusion, "I-I just like mugs."

"You see, why? _Why_? It's just pointless rubbish. You waste your life buying it and never get anything from it." He walked away from her and plonked himself on her sofa, running his hands through his hair, aggravated. She didn't take it offensively. He was bored, so bored in fact he had taken to counting her mugs. Clearly he was in need of some entertainment.

"Is there anything I can get for you? Coff-"

"Yes, you could bring me some body parts from the lab so I can conduct some experiments." Sherlock looked almost hopeful.

"No, no I can't do that." Molly dumped her bag on the kitchen table, placing down her keys and checking through the post, "Mrs Hudson's told me how you can be and I'm not bringing my work home with me. Besides, it would arouse suspicion."

"Don't make me beg. I don't beg."

"You will if you're desperate." She smiled cheekily to herself, confidence growing with every hour she spent with him. He pulled a disgruntled face, sighing desolately, "Look Sherlock, I honestly would if I could, but Mycroft told you to sit tight and not give away any sign that you're here."

"I don't have to do as my brother tells me."

Molly took off her coat and hung it on the back of the door, "I think you do in this case." Sherlock stood from the sofa and walked towards her.

"If I can't have fun, neither can you." She was surprised to say that this wasn't the first childish thing he had said to her. In fact, there had been several occasions over the last couple of days, the more time he spent with her, the less he was able to put on a front of the usual suave and sophistication he always bestowed on her in the lab. He was being more like himself and although some aspects of this were a negative, the majority of it she liked to see.

"I could buy you something?"

"Like what?" Sherlock was close to her face now, personal space an unknown sense to him, putting her concentration into disarray.

"E-erm well," The cogs in Molly's head were at a halt, "Umm, a game or something?"

The detective scoffed, "Games are boring. Too simple."

"What about some films?"

"Boring. I've watched every film you have in this house, all intellectually below me."

Something sprung to mind that she knew he would like, "Wait here."

Molly scurried off, a sense of loneliness sprung over her in that moment, no longer able to feel his body heat surrounding her every being. Closing her bedroom door behind her, she crouched to look under her bed, moving boxes of photographs around, old toys and old memories to get to what she was looking for. Spotting it, she grabbed the handle and slid it from under the bed, opening it for a second to check it was intact, before rising and leaving the room.

Sherlock had taken to pacing about the room, desperate for something to occupy his mind. Molly came to a stop as she saw him, the flow of his dressing gown swishing with his movements.

"Here." Was all she said, holding the violin case out in front of her. The detective stopped in his tracks, as if a brick wall had suddenly invaded his path. He stared at her intently, eyes drifting from her to the case, "It was my great grandfather's violin. He was an excellent violinist, played in the London Orchestra." Molly smiled at the memory of her father telling her all about his grandpa, "It's been passed down the family, so it's old. I mean, it was even old when my great grandfather first bought it." Sherlock continued to stare, "I can't play, it just gather's dust under my bed. But I know you can, you're very talented and I trust you to keep it safe whilst you're here."

He said nothing.

"I'll leave it here for you." Molly placed it on the coffee table, smiling awkwardly before she turned to the kitchen.

"Thank you." Sherlock said thoughtfully, "You didn't have to."

"I did, you we're beginning to drive me mad." This made him genuinely laugh, sitting himself on the sofa and opening the case. He looked at it as though he had miraculously re-grown a limb and this made Molly smile. He seemed legitimately happy for the first time in a long time.

* * *

Sherlock had spent a whole day absorbed in playing with the violin, tuning it, cleaning it and eventually playing it. When Molly had emerged from the room with the instrument, he was halted in place, firstly amazed that he hadn't found that when he'd raided her room and also that she had known that this was better than bringing her body parts.

He couldn't put it down, pulling the bow over the strings until early hours in the morning. He would burst into Molly's room, hours before she had to be up for work, telling her to listen to something he'd just composed. Some mornings she would listen, not wanting to disappoint him, other's she would turn over and tell him just to wait a few hours for breakfast. But he couldn't. He was so thrilled to be able to voice his emotions through a violin again. It had been so long, so long of holding all his hidden feelings inside without being able to let them out. Now he could and he didn't mind Molly hearing so.

His phone buzzed. There were only two people who had his number and one was currently cooking him his breakfast. Mycroft then.

_Tell Dr Hooper she must resume her usual life. It's suspicious._

_Mycroft_

He glanced at her, watching as she stirred some beans in a pan.

_What is she doing different?_

_SH_

There was an immediate reply.

_Spending all her time with you. I've arranged a date. He will pick her up at seven._

_Mycroft_

Sherlock didn't bother to reply. He didn't reply because he didn't want Molly to go. He wanted her to stay with him and keep him company. She was the only person he had in his life right now and without her here, he went slightly mad. He needed another voice, another person to listen to what he had to say. It had to be done though, She had to go and do this so that things didn't seem out of the ordinary.

"You're going out tonight at seven." Sherlock stood, and straightened his jacket, feeling in the mood to actually get dressed this morning.

"Excuse me?" Molly stopped placing bacon on their plates.

"Mycroft has arranged a date for you this evening." He sat down in front of his plate, a full English breakfast cooked from scratch staring him in the face.

"Since when did he decide who I date?"

"He doesn't, he is just making things seem normal." He picked up his knife and fork, "Just go on the date, pretend like you're enthusiastic and then make it fail, like they always do." He smiled at her, tucking into the delicious food. Molly just stared at him from across the table, shock and disbelief evident from her mouth gaping open.

"I'm not going on a date with a complete stranger."

"Oh don't worry about that. I'm almost certain Mycroft wouldn't put your life in danger. You need to do this for my sake."

"Okay, well...I trust you, so I'll do it." She smiled at him then before tucking into her food. He didn't like the feeling that clutched at his heart. Sherlock wanted to tell her not to go, tell her she had to stay here with him and watch rubbish television, listen to him on the violin. But no, he couldn't. He fought the urge and shoved a whole peace of bacon in his mouth to prevent any words coming out.


	10. Chapter 10

**NOTE: I really don't know how to thank you all enough for your reviews! Everytime I read one I'm smiling with amazement that people are actually enjoying this. So I thank you so very much for taking the time to do so. This chapter differs a few times between Molly's perspective and Sherlock's, so I hope it isn't too confusing. **

**Chapter: Molly meets her date and Sherlock worries. **

_**I own very little I'm afraid.**_

* * *

When Molly emerged from her room at ten to seven, she was utterly predictable with her opening sentence. The common, "How do I look?" The usual fishing rod out at sea, hoping to catch a compliment. He would not be caught by the bait, he was sure of that. He didn't intentionally compliment people and when he did, it was most often by accident, or to get something he wanted and not to actually make someone feel good about themselves. When he kept from responding, Molly trotted over to the mirror above the fireplace to check her hair was okay, or at least Sherlock guessed that was what she was doing.

"Am I allowed to ask the name of the person I'm seeing tonight?" The pathologist sounded shy when asking this. He wondered whether it was the apprehension of another failed date or actual enjoyment at the idea of going out, he wasn't sure. All he knew was he didn't like it and he wished she would stay here to keep him company. Not because of sentiment, just because he'd spent the past few weeks completely alone and he didn't like how horrible he'd felt during that time.

He'd taken to staring intently at Molly's laptop, researching the names of Moriarty's accomplices, unable to keep himself away from his work. Sherlock wasn't going to do anything, knowing full well it would be a risk, possibly even messing up Mycroft's plan, but not doing anything at all really drove him up the wall.

"My phone," Sherlock said without looking away from the screen, "Mycroft sent me another message with details."

"Thanks." He felt her sit down by his side, picking up his phone and reading the text, "Oscar Bailey. Interesting. I hope he isn't boring." She giggled, but it soon turned into an awkward clearing of her throat, obviously realising he wasn't interested in trivial chatting.

A knock at the door invaded the silence that had enveloped the room. Sherlock heard Molly take in a breath as she stood, walking towards the door before halting and turning to face him.

"Sherlock?" He had no choice. He had to pull himself from his research, most likely to give her some comforting words and ease her anxiety. But it was as his eyes settled on her that a foreign mood coursed its way through his veins. His eyes were fixed, his heart pumping more frequently than usual.

"Would you mind feeding Toby…" She continued to talk but quite frankly, Sherlock wasn't listening to her. He was staring at her, almost noticing her beauty for the first time. His eyes shamefully travelled from her head, down her body and to her shoes. Molly had curled her hair in a side parting, mousy brown locks continuing to flow past her shoulders, where it lay on her crimson coloured dress. The dress itself was thick cotton, pulled in at the waist and flowed delicately to her knees. Sherlock could see the curve of her hips, her tiny waist. Molly's legs were exposed, a slight shine to them as the light hit them and finally her black shoes, a modest height, but enough to accentuate her features properly. She wore no jewellery, but he felt that after her last attempt at dressing up, it would have been too much.

"Sherlock?"

He pulled his eyes away from her body nonchalantly, acting as though he wasn't affected by her at all, "Your date is waiting."

"Will you feed Toby please?"

"Yes." Sherlock said through gritted teeth, wanting her gone so he could once again concentrate.

"Okay, well thanks." With that, Molly signalled for him to hide and he did so, just slightly in the corridor. Neither of them were sure if this man knew of Sherlock's existence, but they weren't willing to risk it. And then male voice aired itself into the living room and Sherlock scoffed, a rich businessmen, probably good friends with Mycroft and obviously confident with females. There were introductions and giggles before he heard the door close behind them.

As soon as she was gone, he let out a breath, leaning back on the wall and running his hands through his hair. Never in his life had he been distracted by Molly. Never in his life had he seen her dressed like that. And almost certainly, he had never in his life felt physically attracted to anyone. She'd dressed up at Christmas, but there she had tried too hard, tried so hard to be someone she wasn't, that the ending result was looking overdone. He didn't think her attractive at all in that moment.

Though, just then, crimson dress, locks curled perfectly around her face and modest makeup, he'd been shunted into an unknown world of being attracted to someone. He wasn't sure whether to like it or not. For a start, Sherlock had forced these sorts of feelings back when he was young and struggling with puberty. Now, almost twenty-two years later, he was feeling fourteen again. Suppressing such urges for so long was intentional and now suddenly, he was unable to keep them at bay.

He hated how Molly was able to surface such feelings within him and that was why he didn't want to like what had happened to him. All she had done was dress up for her date and it had sent him down a path he didn't know. Although on the other hand, he had to admit that he'd taken pleasure in raking his eyes over her, a twinge-like feeling coursing through him, admittedly to unknown areas. It was more than enjoyment. Sherlock hadn't wanted to pull his eyes away from her and he almost certainly feared he would do it again.

A coffee and violin were needed, _now_.

* * *

Oscar had seemed lovely at first. He greeted himself politely and had acted like gentlemen. Molly presumed he was a man with money, smart suit, perfect hair and big flashy car. She wasn't usually into this sort of man who splashed his cash, but she was happy to be wooed by him this time. Dark hair, radiant smile and tall, just what she liked.

They'd gone to a restaurant in the centre of London, posh and sophisticated, a place she only ever dreamt of being seated in. Oscar was so charming and funny. Molly felt herself drifting into a fantasy world, a world full of this man and all his glory. He was too good to be true and she decided she would be happy to have Mycroft arrange a date for her again if they were all like this. A niggling thought kept pushing at her also, the thought that this could be the man to rid her of her unrequited love for Sherlock. Finally after years of hopeless moments and cherished looks, she saw some sort of light.

"So, tell me a little bit about yourself Molly." Oscar sipped his wine, an almost constant smile on his lips.

"Well," She swallowed a mouthful of chicken, "I'm a pathologist."

"I see."

"I have a cat."

"What's his name?"

"Toby."

"Nice." He continued to smile.

"And I have family living in Ireland." Molly smiled, wondering whether she was playing it cool or looking awkward like she did on most dates, "What about you?"

"Well," Oscar pushed his empty plate to the side and leant somewhat on the table in front of him, "I'm a lawyer, I have two children, Annie and Harry," _To an ex-wife I hope_, "and a dog named Rupert."

"Wow, sounds wonderful." She smiled again, knowing full well she would be hoping for a second date out of this.

The pair finished with their meal, Oscar tipping way over what was necessary and then they left. He'd then taken her for a walk along the river, laughing, joking and smiling at one another the whole way. They stopped at a bench and the timid pathologist looked up at him.

"Well…" Molly had said awkwardly.

"Molly," The same charming smile graced his features as he stepped towards her, towering over her, "Don't think me too forward for doing this but…" Oscar leant down and kissed her on the lips gently. It was soft and sweet and how she imagined it would be kissing Sherlock. The thought came into her head and she immediately realised how inappropriate it was in the moment. Pulling away, she giggled half because she liked his kiss and also because she wanted to forget about Sherlock. She was feeling happy for the first time in a long while and _that man_ wasn't going to spoil it for her.

"I'm going to shock you now, Molly." Frowning, she met his eyes, his eyes glistening from the streetlamp, darkness established a good few hours ago.

"What?" She said simply, a nervous laugh following.

"I know what you're hoping for. But I don't tend to have exclusive relationships. I have arrangements, with different women," Oh dear. It was like everything drained from her right there and that fantasy of complete and utter happiness with Oscar had almost certainly disappeared. He was a player, simply a player. He could dress it up how he liked, he was simply a player.

"Okay."

"All the other women know about one another and I'm honest with them all." He clearly hadn't realised her unease as that sickening charming smile still gracing his features, "But I've decided I want you to be in my life. We could have something special." _Something special?_ Was he actually serious? Molly laughed, shaking her head in disbelief, wondering how many women degraded themselves to be one of his play mates. She shook Oscar's hand.

"I've enjoyed our date, thank you Oscar, but it was nice meeting you, good night." Molly turned, furiously annoyed that things had gone this way.

"Think about it Molly, please."

Without turning, she shouted behind her, "Oh I will, don't you worry."

She headed straight for the nearest pub, intending on drinking her sorrows away until she was numb.

* * *

The sound of the violin had calmed him somewhat, and distracted him from the venomous thoughts he'd been having earlier. To be frank, Sherlock didn't want to ponder it, or worry about the whole situation, because it wasn't him and he almost certainly wasn't going to let himself get caught up in it all. Suppress what had happened and move on.

Or at least that was his plan. Such a plan had gone toddling down the drain when he heard Molly return from her date. But, even before he could see her, he knew the date had gone badly. Simply because Sherlock could hear her drunkenly trying to get her key in the lock. The key stabbed the door first in several places before it eventually found its destination.

Stumbling over the threshold, the detective observed from the sofa as Molly used the door for support, swinging it closed and looking furiously over in his direction.

"_You_." She'd said, understandably, but still, slurred, "You and your stupid suits and stupid hair and stupid brother. You're horrible." The handbag she was clutching was chucked heavily onto the kitchen table, shoes flung off separately in different directions, "I do everything for you and I get _absolutely_ nothing in return."

"Molly, you do realise how pathetic you sound." A silence clung to the air, Sherlock immediately realising his mistake. Though he couldn't help but be cruel. It was his defence. Maybe she wasn't pathetic. She was hurt and lonely, but still, he was mad at her for causing him to feel. He didn't like it.

"Oh, do I?"

"Yes, you do."

"You're calling me pathetic?" She stumbled forward slightly, hands shoved haphazardly onto her hips, "You're calling me pathetic after everything I've done for you?" He could see tears forming in her eyes and he felt horrible for it. Sherlock wished he could take it back, though he knew it was too late for that, "_You_ make me feel pathetic, Sherlock." With that, she burst into tears, back sliding down the bathroom door and head falling on her knees.

He swallowed deeply, closing his eyes for a second as he contemplated his next move. He hadn't felt this bad since Christmas. He'd realised his mistake then and he realised it now. But he didn't think she would be in want of a kiss on the cheek on this occasion.

"I'm sorry, Molly."

"Don't bother." Drunken Molly wasn't as polite as sober Molly and he definitely preferred the latter.

With a deep breath, Sherlock stood, pacing over to her and pulling her up by the arms. She refused at first, attempted to stay put where she was, but he knew he couldn't leave her here like this. If he did, she would still be led there in the morning. With little persuasion, Sherlock was able to guide her to her bed and lay her down, pulling the covers over and switching off the light. However, he was surprised at her next bold action.

"Sherlock, will you stay with me?" By that he gathered she meant sleep in her bed with her, no more. However, Sherlock didn't feel it was the best idea after his earlier mishap.

"You'll feel better in the-"

"Sherlock, _please_. Don't be so robotic just this once." She sighed, "I won't ask again." He looked at her then, her eyes piercing into him like she could see to his core. After what he had done just moments before, he felt it only right that he did what she wanted. He needed to make it up to her and he couldn't think of a better way. With another deep breath, he closed the door and removed his jacket, climbing into the bed next to her and closing his eyes. It was then he felt an arm slide across his chest and still over his heart.

"Thank you." Was all she said before the soft noise of sleep filled the room.


	11. Chapter 11

**NOTE: Thanks again for your reviews! I really appreciate every single one. Sorry it's taken me so long to update. I've been bogged down with essays for history so I've not been able to update. Next chapter shouldn't take as long I hope. Any mistakes, let me know! I'll sort them out asap.**

**Chapter Elven: The morning after. **

_**I own nothing!**_

* * *

It was a loud clang and the faint smell of bacon that first woke Molly from her slumber. She was led on her front, hair spewed in all directions across her pillow, the rumble of her stomach making her frown with the need for something tasty. She attempted to piece together how she had ended up in her bed, still in her red dress from the night before, now crumbled and in need of a wash. To be honest, Molly couldn't remember how she'd gotten into her flat in the first place, let alone to her room. She guessed that she'd scraped herself across the hallway walls until she fell through the door and collapsed on the bed. It had happened before and in all honestly, it was the most plausible turn of events. She remembered going on a date, being utterly humiliated by Oscar and then deciding to drown her bitter life into the drain. After that, things became extremely hazy.

The pathologist rolled onto her back, rubbing her eyes before sitting up, the faint aroma of Sherlock hitting her nostrils, _wishful thinking, obviously_. A headache and the dreaded nauseous feeling washed over her, causing her to groan with pure misery and self loathing. Clanging could be heard again, coming from the kitchen of her flat. _Ah yes, Sherlock Holmes_. The man who had made her go on the date in the first place. Well, his brother, but still, she went because _he'd_ asked her to and she didn't want to let him down. Molly had gotten hurt again, like she always did and quite frankly, she felt slightly bitter towards the man staying in her flat right now.

She swung her legs over the side of her bed, heading for the bathroom to pull off her dress and shove on her dressing gown. Molly then padded over to her bedroom door, opening it and peering out, hair still hideously uncombed. Slipping on her slippers, she cautiously walked down the hallway, worried in case she'd said anything ridiculous to him on her arrival home last night. It was likely. It was highly likely because if she had felt anger towards him this morning, when soberness was taking hold again, it was probable she'd gotten irritated at him with alcohol rooted in her system.

When she first glimpsed him in the kitchen, half hidden behind the wall, he had his back to her, pouring beans onto a plate and plonking the empty pan into the sink. He was dressed in a fresh suit, looking like he often did when working in her lab.

"Sit down." Was all he said, before he turned and placed a plate on the placemat. Molly did as instructed, not in any fit mood to argue, though wasn't entirely sure why he'd made her a full English breakfast, when he clearly knew the state she was in.

"T-thank you," She started timidly, "but I'd much prefer some paracetamol, if I have any."

She heard him scoff, "Molly, taking drugs to cure the side effects of a drug really is not a sensible option, in fact, it's dangerous."

"Dangerous?" He rolled his eyes.

"Taking painkillers only makes your liver work even harder and considering the fact that you've spent your night last night beating it to a pulp, I'd suggest you stay clear of your usual hang over cures and take one of mine."

Molly frowned, "Do you even drink?"

"Only when I have to." There was a pause, "Make sure you eat the eggs. You need the protein." She caught his eye then and there was a strange look in them, one she didn't fully understand. Sherlock was looking at her like he was trying to work her out, or something, she wasn't sure. All she knew was he knew what had happened last night and she didn't. That made her uncomfortable, the thought that she may have said something she shouldn't, so she dug into the eggs and wished away the ill feelings that clung to her skin.

Later that day, Molly lay on the sofa, taking a nap and resting her head, knowing full well that she had work the next day and didn't want to be slicing corpses with a headache. The detective had hovered around her all day for some unfathomable reason, following her like a puppy dog, only leaving her side to release his bowls, and taking the odd glance at her when he thought she couldn't see. Maybe he was waiting for an apology, or waiting to apologise to her. Maybe he didn't realise she couldn't remember the events of last night and was expecting her to be acting differently. _Maybe I should concentrate on feeling better rather than trying to unsuccessfully work him out_, she thought. Sighing, she moved her head on the cream cushion, attempting to make herself more comfortable.

"What." His deep voice rumbled in her chest.

"What?" Molly opened her eyes in confusion, not understanding what he was asking.

"Why are you sighing?" Sherlock was holding the violin under his chin, as if he was about to play. He sat on a small Victorian armchair she had by her fireplace that used to be her Grandma's, his eyes gazing over to her, no visible emotion in his features.

"I was just sighing-"

"Yes," He said sounding irritated, "but a person doesn't just sigh for no reason." He swung the bow about in his free hand, "A thought in your head has clearly caused you to sigh. I've lived with John long enough to know that about human emotion." Molly said nothing in response, trying to deter away from him discovering her thoughts, "Why did you sigh?"

"It doesn't matter Sherlock, just let me sleep."

There was a pause, before he pulled the bow across the strings in an attempt to keep her attention, "You're confused." Why did he always have to get it spot on? "You're confused about something." He paused again, his chin still resting on the pad, "You're attempting to work something out, most likely me, either about why I haven't asked how your date went, or because you want to piece together the hazy events of your drinking escapade and know that I was sober to remember it all."

She sighed again, purposefully this time, to see whether he understood why.

"Now you're irritated."

"Yes Sherlock," Molly said through gritted teeth, "I don't want to talk about it. Please let me sleep."

Like a child, he stared at her for a second, playing the violin defiantly before briskly standing and walking to his room.

* * *

Admitting there was a problem, was the first problem. Admitting that he was feeling out of place was not something he did lightly. Sherlock didn't like not understanding something and this day was his worst one yet since living with Molly. It was the worst because when he expected her to behave one way, she behaved in another. When he thought she would be asking petty questions about the previous evening, he had a faint feeling of disappointment in his gut when he was unable to fulfill his need to talk to her. This was unlike him. Thinking and feeling this way was outrageous and he wanted to take it out on her because it was all her fault.

Last night, Sherlock told himself that he'd willingly slept in her bed when she asked because he needed to make it up to her. He needed to make things right because he hated making things wrong. He'd planned to lay with her until he heard the soft breath of slumber, until she slept and he could sneak away from the horrid touch of sentiment. But when that soft breathing never came and he'd woken up in daylight, the detective had panicked. He panicked because he'd woken up on his side, face temptingly close to Molly's, having the first restful night's sleep he'd had in years. Normally, Sherlock would wake before dawn stretched its arms and be pacing about in his dressing down, looking for something to do. He was not lying in bed with a drunken woman wasting time in his dream world.

That morning when he'd cooked her his hangover special, his exterior was calm, his interior was a mess. On the outside he was his usual self, Molly entirely unaware of his discontent. His mind and body were playing havoc, tugging him in one direction and then the other. Sherlock didn't understand this feeling. And he'd hovered around her all day in an attempt to work it out. When she didn't want to talk, he was irritated, because he was unable to think aloud and work out his emotion.

Now he was sat alone in his dull room, wondering about the world outside this flat, whether John was still moping and Mrs Hudson was making him tea. Whether Lestrade was coping without him and Anderson was still secretly happy his inferior mind was now temporarily the superior. Taking a deep breath, he placed his violin in position and began to play, releasing any annoyance he felt in that moment out into the world. Sherlock was enveloped into the notes, not playing any song in particular, just letting his fingers lead. The moment somehow felt personal to him, like a diary to someone else, something for his ears only.

That's why he was frustrated when a light knock on the door broke him from his trance. The detective placed his violin down gently on the bed and opened the door, ignoring the small woman who dodged out of his way as he stormed into the front room and lay down on the sofa, hands in his payer-like position.

"Are you okay?" Molly said, concerned. She'd showered, obviously, and was blatantly feeling better, as she was now dressed and back to her usual mousy self. He didn't know why he was so annoyed. He didn't want to look at her, or talk to her. He wanted to get a text from Mycroft this instant, telling him all was okay and he could return to his comfortable lifestyle of solving crime and working in the lab. The close proximity with her these past few hours was driving him up the wall.

"You know, you've been acting weird all day. Have I done something wrong?"

"No." He muttered instantly.

"Have I said something?" Her voice was wary, like she knew she was guilty in some form or another.

There was a thoughtful pause before he squinted his eyes, "No."

She moved his feet off the end of the sofa so she could take a seat, much to Sherlock's annoyance, "Was it because I came home drunk?"

"Molly, stop asking questions. You're boring me."

"Can you tell me what happened please? It must be something because you weren't funny with me before."

"I'm always funny with you. There is nothing different about the current situation. Stop flattering yourself with sentiment." He pulled himself off the sofa and headed over to her bookcase, pulling out a book on human anatomy and staring intently at the front cover.

"It's not the same. You're not the only one who observes people and situations, you know." He could almost hear her gulp down her nerves, "And I've observed you enough to know you're acting different to usual."

He said nothing, not wanting to prolong the conversation and hating the fact that she was deducing him without his consent.

And that was when it came. The vague remembrance of the previous night and Sherlock was confused as to whether he wanted her to know he'd slept next to her until morning.

"Thank you, by the way." She stood, hands nervously tangling in front of her, "Thanks for putting up with me. I-I don't really remember much but bits have come back to me and you dealt with me well. I'm sorry for making you sleep where you didn't want to."

His head jolted in her direction, "Why are you sorry?"

"Well, because…" She took a breath, "you don't like that sort of thing." Again, he kept quiet, causing her to pick up her coat and pull on her shoes, "I'm nipping out for a few things, do you want anything?"

"No. Thank you."

"Okay." With that, she left.


	12. Chapter 12

**NOTE: Thanks again for yours reviews and what not! This next chapter I found really difficult to write because I could so easily have gone out of character with Sherlock and Molly. Let me know if you don't think it works or if there are any mistakes. Personally, this is my favourite chapter, but I'm really nervous about it at the same time. Let me know what you think, please! **

**Chapter Twelve: Sherlock invades Molly's privacy and she's not happy**

_**I wish I owned everything, but sadly I do not.**_

* * *

He didn't intentionally offend people, Molly knew that, he was just never very good at saying the right thing. Sherlock was struggling with the close proximity of her flat. The way she had looked before going on her date, was like he had never seen her before. Sherlock was willing to admit that he had felt some sort of attraction towards her, but that annoyed him greatly, as he never let emotion, or feelings, or sentiment get in the way of his life, not since he was an adolescent anyway. For ten seconds or more, he had become distracted from what he was doing and to him, that was a scary concept.

He concluded that sleeping in her bed, he had done out of curiosity. The detective had been weakened by his earlier distraction and as a result, had subconsciously been weakened to his other needs. He knew he acted as though he didn't need anyone, though he was still a human being and any sentimental feelings he got, he usually managed to suppress. In that moment however, he gave in to the need of human company, only for ten minutes, until eventually sleep had taken a grip on him and all was lost.

He was alone in the house, he knew that, yet he crept his way to her room, opening the door and observing. Sherlock didn't know exactly what he was doing. He was curious and wanted to find out more about her that he didn't already know. Most things about Molly were predictable, in fact, he knew for sure that she was the type to keep a diary. People like her were, full of sentiment and dreaming. The detective ruled out several places at once where it could be hidden. Hands in pockets, he looked about the room. _Not under the pillow_, _no_, he would have noticed the night before. Side draws were full of junk, _too precious to be kept in there. Hidden in a sock drawer_, _no_, already been rooted in. Molly had a small bathroom in her room. Sherlock wouldn't call it a bathroom, neither did Molly, more a toilet and a sink built into an old store cupboard, but he knew it wouldn't be in their either. Under her mirror opposite her bed, was a small fireplace. Not like the one in her front room, but small and unused, now converted into a small draw space with two oak doors, shaped to fit the hole. He paced over and opened them, reaching into the old vent where he could feel a small ledge. Rooting along, he found what he was looking for, a small book, presumably her diary. Sherlock pulled it out, a royal blue clothbound book. A diary as predicted.

Sitting down on her chaise longue, Sherlock began to skim read through the heavy diary and he observed that he was mentioned on every page, save a couple. He had expected as much. After the Christmas incident, he'd realised then that she was in love with him and people who were in love, couldn't stop thinking about the person who occupied their heart. Therefore, he being mentioned every day in the diary didn't surprise him. He read the last entry:

_28th November 2012_

_Sherlock plays the violin a lot since I brought out my dad's for him. You would not believe how musically talented he is. I've heard him before obviously, performing last Christmas as previously mentioned, but hearing him practicing and writing his own music is just, I don't know. It feels personal, like I shouldn't be listening or something. He seems to have perked up a bit too. The violin must make him happy somehow. He keeps waking me up at random hours of the morning because he wants me to listen to something he's composed. I'm usually grumpy, but it's really nice to know he wants my company. At least I hope that's the reason…I can hear him playing now. Honestly, he puts so much emotion into what he plays. I feel I shouldn't listen but it's just so addictive. It makes my heart race. I just want to walk into his room now and kiss him. I want to tell him to give into his desires and kiss me back. I'd then bring him to my room and…well you know._

His heart raced slightly at the thought and he couldn't understand why. He didn't want to kiss Molly Hooper or do anything else with her for that matter. But his body felt excited at the thought and it urged him to read on.

_But I know that will never happen. For one I lack the confidence to do such a thing and two, he's only ever liked one woman and she died last year. Irene Adler I think her name tag said, can't remember now. But he had clearly had a sexual relationship with her, otherwise how else did he know what her naked body looked like? Mycroft confirmed it for me too when he deliberately ignored my question._

Molly was jealous of The Woman, obviously, but she had gotten her facts wrong and presumed he had pursued a relationship with her. He had not. He had never had any relations with anyone. Sherlock had never seen the point.

_Why does it still bother me so much? It was almost a year ago and things have moved on from then. I mean he's living with me for god's sake! I can't ask for more than that. I just can't understand why I'm not good enough for him? Am I too ugly? He says my lips are small and my breasts too. Clearly he prefers women with larger ones, women who are sexy and have all the confidence, not just in public but in the bedroom too. I mean, I've never been good enough for anyone, but I know I deserve to be happy…maybe I should be content with living alone with Toby. He's loyal and won't ever leave me…I hope._

Why did she beat herself down so much? He'd never understood that about people, especially women. Molly wasn't doing it for sympathy because quite frankly, she didn't expect anyone to read this. So she genuinely thought negatively of herself, even though her reasons were not justified.

_Anyway, I'm tired and still need to read the rest of my chapter. Sherlock's music should help me sleep too. Goodnight x_

Sherlock took a deep breath and glanced away from the pages for a minute. When he thought about it, Molly was a lovely person and he knew that more than anyone, she deserved to be happy. He noticed that she tended to take the negatives out of a situation rather than the positives, _a pessimist then_. When she talked about him saying her breasts were too small, Molly had taken the bad out of it, the fact that they were small. She hadn't taken in the fact that he'd been looking in the first place.

Sherlock heard the front door close and for a second he panicked, wondering whether he would be able to get the diary back in place and leave her room in time without things seeming suspicious.

"Sherlock?" He heard Molly shouting, "Toby?" The cat, who had been lounging on her bed, stretched and scampered off to the kitchen, clearly knowing there was some sort of treat in store. He stood and quickly placed the diary back where he'd found it, not noticing as some brick dust fell from the chimney at the quickness of his actions. Closing the oak doors, he casually walked out of her room, only to bump into her in the corridor, Molly bringing her hand to her chest in a startled manner.

"Sherlock," She said breathlessly, shocked at him appearing from her private space, "What were you doing in my room?"

He needed to think of a reasonable excuse, as he was sure looking at her diary wouldn't go down well, "I was doing some surveillance from your window," The detective winked at her, "Just in case." Feeling sure he had gotten away with it, he walked passed her, picking up Toby in the corridor and walking to the front room.

Molly hadn't questioned him further after that. They'd eaten tea together - not that Sherlock was very hungry - and then sat down to a boring few hours of tedious television. Everything was predictable and he voiced his annoyance every time it became too much for him. Eventually, Molly had become irritated by him and had left to go to bed, at which point Sherlock decided to play his violin. Though not more than ten minutes later he was rudely interrupted.

"You've been in my room, Sherlock." Molly appeared behind him, long hair provocatively loose and flowing, coming to rest on her light brown pyjamas. He stopped playing for a second to glance at her, stood in the middle of the room near the fireplace.

"We've been over this Molly, I was-"

"No," She closed her eyes briefly and gritted her teeth, "You've been reading my diary."

Oh dear. He'd been caught. How had she known? He'd put it back where he'd found it and there was no tell tale sign, apart from him exiting her room of course. Though, she had no reason to disbelieve the story he'd feigned.

"It was for research." Sherlock said nonchalantly, turning away from her and continuing to play. But Molly snatched the bow from his hands. Shocked, the detective turned round to look at her, face inches from hers, anger set deep within her eyes. He placed the violin down on the coffee table, understanding that the situation might get heated and he didn't want the instrument damaging.

"Research?" She poked him angrily with the bow, a touch of nervousness still within her actions, "Research?! Sherlock, I don't care what your excuse is, you don't _ever_ read my diary or root through my personal things!"

Sherlock scoffed, heart racing in his chest, though his face said he was unaffected by the situation. He stepped closer to her, "This isn't the first time I've been in your room Molly. Besides, you're only mad because you're embarrassed. Your diary is all about me and you now know I've read everything you've said over the past year."

Her hand swung to slap him, though Sherlock caught her wrist before it made contact, "You're a horrible man, do you not realise?"

"It has been said by many, yes." He observed her heaving chest, the upset and hurt on her face and the shaking of her body, riddled with pure frustration at the man before her. It excited him somewhat to see her like this. She was always so tame and careful around him. However, this moment, hair cascading down her delicate features, cotton dressing gown hanging from her shoulders. She clearly didn't care about her appearance, nor did she care what she said.

"I really don't know what I see in you. You don't care who you hurt. You don't care about anyone but yourself! What gives you the right to read my dia-"

"It's all about me isn't it? Why am I not allowed to read what you write about me?" Both were breathing faster now, Molly more so. But Sherlock was getting a strange enjoyment from aggravating her. His hand still held her wrist, keeping her in close proximity.

"It's private." She responded through gritted teeth, "I don't want anyone reading it, especially _you_."

"Why?" A slight smirk tugged on his lips, eyes travelling from her eyes to her parted mouth, "You know everything I read in there will have already been predictable to me. If I knew anyway, what's the problem?"

"It's personal!" Molly said in an almost scream. There was a silence then, just the sound of their breathing. Sherlock didn't know what came over him. Curiosity he supposed, the wonder of what her lips felt like. But all he did know was he wanted to know. He pulled her closer and gently crashed his lips to hers, completely engulfed in new sensations. Her warm body flush against his, the tingling stir he felt course from his lips to the tips of his toes made his eyes drift closed. A soft whimper came from Molly as she dropped the bow in her hand and brought it to his hair. Sherlock let go of her wrist then, snaking his arm around her back to pull her even closer. He deepened the kiss, knowing full well that Molly would recognise his inexperience, though he didn't feel ashamed. He wasn't entirely sure what to do, however, instinct and Molly's soft noises told him he was heading in the right direction.

He hated the fact that he was giving in, but at the same time, he wondered whether he could work this sort of sentiment around his normal life. The feelings currently running through him were like nothing he'd felt before and he enjoyed it immensely, enough to consider a second time. Though, just as he was about to let his hands wonder across her tiny frame, there was a knock on the door. Startled, they parted, clutching one another with wide eyes, firstly at the realisation at what had just happened and also at who could be knocking at such a late hour. Awkwardly and unsure of herself, Molly pushed Sherlock away, the tips of her fingers coming to rest on her lips, eyes nervously meeting his once again. Clearing his throat, Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and moved to hide behind the wall.


	13. Chapter 13

**NOTE: Wow. Seriously, I can't thank you enough for your reviews. In fact, I was so happy I've written the next chapter early. I just wanted to explain about where Molly hides her diary. I don't know if anyone's seen it, but I stole the idea from a program called _Ashes to Ashes_. Alex Drake goes to her old room and pulls out her diary from the fireplace. Thought it was a nice idea. Also, I felt Sherlock would be aware that reading her diary was wrong, but wouldn't be to bothered by the consequences. Anyway, enjoy! Will update next weekend sometime.**

**Chapter Thirteen: A visitor and some contemplation.**

_**I own nothing**_

* * *

Molly straightened her dressing gown and smoothed down her hair, knowing that she looked a bit dishevelled. She peeped through the hole on her door and immediately, her heart sank. It was Mycroft and if he was visiting her, the only reason meant that Sherlock was able to return to his old life. That kiss seconds ago, would result to nothing and everything would go back to normal. No more late nights together on the sofa. No continuation of what just happened. It would be back to the usual routine of him disrupting her failed dates and using her lab every week or so. She felt as though the time he had been in her flat, she hadn't fully appreciated the value of it all. With a reluctant sigh, she opened the door and was greeted by a smile.

"Ah, Miss Hooper, may I come in?" She nodded silently and he entered, turning to face her with a look on his face that said he knew something she didn't, "I'm not interrupting anything am I?"

What did he mean? Surely he couldn't tell, "N-no, I'm just about to go to bed."

"If you say so," He smiled again, before walking over to the wall, "You may come out brother, or have you something to hide?" Molly gathered it was more of a rhetorical question. Sherlock appeared from behind the wall, not bothering to greet the man who was helping him. Instead, he walked over to the violin, picking up the bow from the floor.

"I presume you're here to tell me everything's sorted." Sherlock plucked one of the strings and seated himself in the chair.

"Not quite." Mycroft leant on his umbrella, his long black coat neatly flowing to his knees, "I have managed to eradicate most of the danger. Dr Watson, Mrs Hudson and DCI Lestrade are now safe and you may return to them in a few days." No emotion could be read on Sherlock's face and it unsettled Molly somewhat, "There is the issue however, of Miss Hooper's involvement in all of this." Mycroft turned to look at her, "Moriarty's men are angry at the trickery you both caused. They've been watching Molly. They are not certain it was she who helped you, but they are confident it was her and because of this, we cannot be sure of her safety." Mycroft took a step towards his brother and spoke in a low tone, Molly struggling to hear what was being said, "You must do what you can to keep her safe."

A silence clung to the air then. Molly was sure some unknown recognition passed between them, but she didn't know what. And then she worried about what might happen to her, though she felt that if something were to happen to her, she'd die happy, knowing she'd saved the one person that meant the most to her. She looked at Sherlock, who'd placed down the violin and was leaning on his elbows, hands under his chin in his trademark position.

"Take these few days to think about your resurrection, Sherlock. We've dealt with the media and they won't be announcing your reappearance anytime soon." He headed for the door, "Oh and Sherlock?"

The detective unenthusiastically met his eye. But all that Mycroft did was glance at Molly, then to Sherlock and gave a knowing smile, walking from the room as he swung his umbrella about.

As soon as he disappeared, Molly released a breath she didn't notice she was holding and rushed to close the door. As the latch clicked shut, she remained facing it, too scared to turn around after all the commotion. Breathing through her nose, she slowly span to look at him, still sat in the same position, not able to read what was running through his head in that moment. Nervously she wrapped her dressing gown around her waist and paced forward, shoving a clump of hair behind her ear before breaking the silence.

"H-he, um," She glanced at the door, then back to Sherlock, "You don't think he knew about…you know," She let out a nervous giggle, though it was not one of content, but instead, sheer confusion, "what just happened, do you?"

Without moving a muscle, the detective spoke, "Of course he did."

"How though?" She shook her head slightly in bewilderment.

Sherlock sighed dismally, "To a trained eye all the signs were there. Before you even opened the door he would have known. The delayed time you spent sorting out your appearance was the first give away. Everyone knows the average human being opens the door within ten seconds in a flat this size and as long as there is nothing suspicious to contend with. You took longer than the standard amount, immediately signifying that something was amiss." He looked up at her then, still sat on the blue sofa, eyes searching her appearance, "Then there's how you looked when you finally opened the door. Swollen lips, shortness of breath, recently patted down hair, obvious signs of physical contact. A kiss then." He said with a mocking happy tone, "Mycroft knows there is only one other person in the flat, me, so he puts two and two together. Something took place." Sherlock set his eyes back on the floor, "Finally there was the bow you dropped on the floor as you were caught up in the moment. Not a usual place to keep a bow. No, so it was dropped and forgotten about. Confirmation of what he already knew. Now, I didn't really need to explain that to you, did I?"

He was annoyed, Molly gathered that much. Annoyed that he had kissed her? Annoyed that Mycroft knew? She couldn't tell. But what she did know was that it was unlikely they would pick up from where they left off. With hesitation, Molly sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, knees locked together with nerves, hands robotically falling in her lap.

"What do we do now?"

"Everything returns to how it should be." Sherlock leaned forward and picked up the violin, placing his chin on the pad and observing the bow.

"Okay." _But what about my life?_ She thought.

They were quiet then. Sherlock played whilst Molly listened. She had never expected to ever be kissed by him and to have that memory was more than she could ask for. However, she felt saddened that he had kissed her and was now acting as though it never happened. Reclining into the sofa, she let her eyes close, feeling content as the music took her away.

The kiss had been nothing like she expected. Whenever she had dreamt of that moment, beforehand he had confessed his love for her, pulled her into his arms and whispered sweet nothings. He would then kiss her and they would gallop on horses into the setting sun. A bit dramatic and unrealistic, she knew that, but most of these images were dreamt up in her sleep, so she couldn't be blamed for being a hopeless romantic. And then there was the fact that she had never had a passionate kiss in her life before. Previous kisses with people had all felt mechanical, meant to set the mood before it led on to more intense shenanigans. But this, this kiss with Sherlock Holmes was something different. It actually felt passionate for once and it caused her to be weak at the knees, made her heart pound out of her chest, caused her to moan under his touch. Molly had never experienced anything like it before.

There was another niggling thought that struck Molly as Sherlock had been kissing her. Although everything about the kiss was perfect, better than she had every imagined it to be, better than any kiss she had ever had before, she got a sense of uncertainty coming from him, which was most unusual. Molly knew he was following his instincts more than he was following his experience, which made her reconsider whether he had had a relationship with that woman last year. Maybe he had no experience at all and she would support that theory whole-heartedly, if it were not for the fact that he'd recognised the dead lady from her naked form. What other explanation could there be other than a sexual relationship had taken place?

She was so absorbed in her own thoughts, Molly hadn't realised Sherlock had stopped playing. Opening her eyes, she caught the detective watching her intently, almost as though he was attempting to burrow his way into her thoughts.

"What?" She said self-consciously, a small frown forming on her brow.

"Tell me what you're thinking. He simply said, violin still resting on his shoulder.

"Um, no I'm alright thanks." Laughing nervously, she straightened herself up, "Do you want coffee?"

"No." He paused, eyeing her keenly before continuing, "Why do you not let me know what you're thinking?"

Slightly embarrassed, knowing she was thinking about their earlier embrace, Molly stood and walked over to the fire, placing some logs on it neatly, ready for the morning, "Why should I have to when you probably already know what I'm thinking? I'm predictable, you said it yourself."

"How can I know? I'm not a mind reader."

The pathologist laughed then, "Yes but you have a trained eye remember? Just like your brother, you observe other details so you don't need to be a mind reader to know what people are thinking or doing." Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a thoughtful look on his face, as if he had actually taken in what she had said.

"Alright. Let me work out what you were thinking about." Molly realised her mistake. If she didn't tell him, he'd most likely suss what her thoughts were anyway and repeat them back to her in a more embarrassing way. So she opted to make an escape.

"I think I'm going to go to bed. Goodnight Sherlock." She happened to look at him then and caught a look of knowing in his eye. _Great_, she'd given it away by not really saying anything at all.

"You're embarrassed." Molly continued to head for her room, but Sherlock got up and followed, "Embarrassment means you were thinking about something you shouldn't, which means you were either thinking abo-"

"Sherlock!" She interrupted him, spinning around and holding a hand up in an attempt to halt his mind, "Please, don't humiliate me again. You've done that enough today and I don't think I could take anymore." She sighed, "You know what I was thinking about, so please just think in your head, for once. Goodnight." With that, she opened her bedroom door and shut it behind her, leaving Sherlock in the corridor to ponder her parting words.

Walking over to her cupboard, she opened it and reached for her diary, a secret hiding place that her father had told her about. He'd said to her that anything she held dear to her heart, she should keep hidden in the disused chimney. Her mother's old ring was hidden on the ledge too, as well as some love letters that her grandfather had sent to her Grandma during the war.

Molly pulled out her diary and reclined on her chaise longue, rooting out a pen from the box underneath the seat and turning to a fresh page. With a sigh, mixed with both content and sadness, she began to write:

_30th November 2012_

_Since I last wrote, my days have been quite eventful, so much so, I really don't know where to begin writing. I suppose I should just start from the beginning. Firstly, I went on a date, strangely set up by Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. I went because Sherlock asked me to, but nothing unusual happened, in terms of it failing. Because as usual, it did fail. His name was Oscar and he basically asked me to be one of the many women he regularly meets up with to have a quick fondle with. Can you believe it? What a slime ball. Of course this resulted in me drinking away my sorrows. But things sort of became hazy after this. I came home drunk but I honestly can't remember very much. I remember feeling immensely cheesed off with Sherlock as I tried to put the key in the door. I remember shouting at him but I don't know what. And then…I remember asking him to sleep in my bed with me, which he did, surprisingly. He's not the sort of man to talk about it so I can't really fill in the blanks. I did try but he cleverly avoided my questions. Anyway, after that I left for a bit because Toby needed some food and I'd run out of milk. I came home and this is when things took a more interesting turn. I caught Sherlock coming out of my room and he told me he was looking out of my window or something. So I was like, "fair enough." I didn't really think too much more about it because I had no reason to disbelieve him. Anyway, I headed for bed (this was this evening by the way) and went to reach for my diary. Except I noticed brick dust on my things when I opened the cupboard. Now I know this chimney. It may be brittle in places but bits only break off when you're careless. I was suspicious then because he was in my room earlier. And I knew for sure when I felt for my diary. This may be a bit obsessive but I always place it with the spin leaning on the wall. Except it was the other way round. I was furious because all I do is ramble on about him in here, so I went straight to confront him. We got into a heated argument and…well, he kissed me! I'm still shaking from it all. But I'm not going to get all giddy about it because it won't amount to anything. He's leaving in the next few days so everything will return to normal. He'll forget about it and I'll be forced to forget about it. I've got my wish of having a moment with him, yet I feel more saddened now it's happened. Well, that's all I have to say. Think I'll keep my diary elsewhere for the time being, in the hope he won't find it again. Goodnight x_

Molly sighed, placing the lid back on the pen and climbing into bed, putting her diary underneath her pillow and flicking off her side lamp.

Toby jumped onto the bed, curling up behind her, "Sleep tight Toby."


	14. Chapter 14

**NOTE: Hi again. I know I said I would update next weekend, but this story is all I could think about today and I knew what I wanted to write, so I wrote it down. Thank you so so much for your reviews! The story is setting off from here, the twists and turns are on their way and it's about to become a bumpy ride. But I hope you'll all enjoy it. When I was writing Molly in this chapter, I repeatedly listened to a song that I thought would get me into the right mindset. The song isn't anything to do with loss I don't think, far from it, but the tone and melody of it really helped me to get into the right frame of mind. If anyone's interested in the song, its from Muse's new album _The 2nd Law_ and the song is _Isolated System_. **

**Chapter Fourteen: Sherlock goes to see John. Molly sinks into the background and realises her insignificance now that things are set back in motion.**

_**I wish I owned Sherlock, but sadly, it is only a wish.**_

* * *

The next few days passed with little mention of her life being at risk, the kiss that was conjured up in the heat of the moment, nor Mycroft's untimely visit. Sherlock had taken to pacing a lot, back and forth across the living room floor, violin and sleep forgotten, muttering words to himself, the odd occasion grabbing and tugging his hair in frustration. Molly had been working for the majority of the days, unable to take time off, but unable to tear her mind away from the thought of Sherlock's departure. He'd continued to act as if nothing had happened between them. She seemed to get in his way all the time, asking pointless questions and distracting his train of thought. There had been a number of occasions where he had told her to leave the room because he couldn't think and she reluctantly obliged, not wanting to annoy him further.

As the concept of his departure dawned on her, Molly had directly told him that they needed to talk, fear of him slipping away from her clearer than ever. However, Sherlock being Sherlock, he had either not understand the cliché saying, or he had taken her literally and thought she wanted to engage in, "tedious chatter" and he didn't, "conform to that area of human nature."

Ultimately, the day came. Molly didn't know when she woke, that this would be the day that Sherlock would leave. It was only when she walked into the living that she realised, dressed and ready for work, Sherlock also dressed and ready to leave. She came to a halt when she saw him, black suit, white shirt and the long graceful coat, the detective tying a scarf about his neck. Despondently, Molly swung her bag on her shoulder, watching as he pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket.

"It's today then." She stated, trying her hardest to contain her emotions because she knew Sherlock would not approve if she wept.

"Yes," He pulled on a glove cheerfully, "Mycroft text me. Everything's clear. I'm heading to Baker Street."

She averted her eyes, "Okay, well I'm going to work so-"

"No, you're coming with me." He smiled at her, but it wasn't a comforting smile. It was an authoritative smile that said he knew he was in charge. She didn't want to give in, she always gave in, though Molly knew what this moment meant to him and considering the last few days he'd practically avoided her, it was nice that he wanted her company again. Still, she couldn't just drop her plans.

"I can't, I have work and Toby needs a new cat bed."

"Toby's fine. This is more important." Walking towards her, he turned her around and guided her to the door.

"Sherlock-"

"_Molly_," He opened the door and pushed her through it, following her and closing the door behind him, "You'll be an hour at the most. Don't let me down."

They pulled up outside Baker Street in Molly's Mini Cooper. Sherlock had protested, demanding like a child that they take a taxi, though for once, Molly had stood her ground and overpowered him with her own protests, telling him that she needed her car for work and if he wanted her to come with him, he came with her in the car. These demands sprung him into action and with a sigh of discontent, he'd thrown himself into the front passenger seat, Molly secretly smiling to herself at her success.

When they'd found a place to park further down the street, Sherlock practically jumped out of the car, clearly enthusiastic at the prospect of getting his life back. As he walked along the road, he shoved his hands into his pockets, the cold air visibly spewing from both their mouths.

"It'd be best if you didn't say anything Molly," Sherlock spoke, continuing to walk along the road, "You know how things tend to go when you say something in the moment." Too right. Last time she'd said something in the moment he'd kissed her. She shook the thought quickly aside before it made her smile, both with content and torment.

"I know." Arriving at the door, the detective turned to her, smiling derisively.

"Now watch," He knocked on the door and began to count like a parent teaching a child, mocking her for taking longer than the average time to open the door that eventful night, consequently injecting suspicion into Mycroft's mind, "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7." He heard the latch, "Under ten seconds, see?"

The door swung open and Mrs Hudson appeared, a beaming smile on her face. Though, when she saw who greeted her, the smile crawled from her face and her eyes went wide, mouth agape.

"Hello Mrs Hudson." Sherlock said with a genuine smile, removing his gloves and shoving them in his pockets, "Is John in?"

"Sherl…" Before she had a chance to finish his name, Mrs Hudson's knees gave way and her eyes rolled back in her head, the detective catching her before she crumbled to the ground. Picking her up, he carried her to her apartment, lying her down on a flowery sofa and making for the door.

"Um, Sherlock?" Molly looked back to where Mrs Hudson led, arms spewed in different directions, "Someone should be with her when she wakes up. I'll stay here." She was about to take a seat when she felt a cold hand grip hers and drag her from the room.

"Stop trying to be Florence Nightingale, Molly. I need you to come upstairs with me." Molly was pulled from the room, halted at the bottom of the stairs as she saw Sherlock take a deep breath and then dragged up the stairs to his old flat. She curiously wondered whether he'd forgotten he was holding her hand, because he'd succeeded in making her follow, so there was now no need to keep his hold on her. Then Molly decided it was not the time to ponder. Right now she needed to be there for Sherlock and that's what she would do, regardless of anything else.

When they reached the top of the stairs, he let her hand go, taking two steps through the open doorway and then coming to a stop. Molly was right behind him and could see what he was looking at. John sat in the chair facing away from them, elbow leaning on the armchair, head resting on his hand. The room was silent, no music, no television, no nothing. Yet John acted as though he had heard none of the commotion as they had arrived. Molly would have described it as almost eerie, like death had gripped the room and was devouring any soul that remained, mocking John with the silence, mocking him with the loss of his dear friend. She didn't like to admit it, but since she'd last seen him, the man had evidently delved further into the pit of despair.

Taking a glance at Sherlock, Molly noticed that even he was affected by the site before them, hands deftly still by his sides, breathing slightly irregular. He turned to look at her then, something in his eye that said he wasn't sure how to approach the situation. With a breath, Sherlock spoke.

"John." He didn't turn to look, just removed his head from his hand and let out a short breath of shock.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"No." He began to say, clear signs of mixed emotions within his words, anger, despair, confusion, frustration, "Don't you dare do this to me. Don't you dare, no." He shook his head and looked down to his lap, "No, no, you're _dead_." John still didn't turn to look at him, obviously unsure whether his mind was playing tricks on him.

"That's what I led you to believe."

John looked out the window, "This isn't real," Shaking his head, he laughed sadly, "I've imagined countless times you walking through that door."

"And now it's happened." Sherlock waited patiently, anxiety unable to be hidden to Molly. After a moment of silence, John finally looked at him, tears in his eyes. He laughed then, laughed so hard, she wondered whether she'd missed something.

"Why?" John laughed and cried at the same time, standing from the chair. He took two steps towards Sherlock and angrily grabbed the lapels of the detective's jacket. His voice had turned to one of pure anger, "_Why_ put me through this, Sherlock?"

"I had to, for your safety." Molly took a step away from the pair, fiddling with the handle of her bag, not entirely sure what to do. He'd asked her to be there, but the moment felt private somehow. John still clutched Sherlock's lapels, shaking him furiously, "If I hadn't you'd all be dead, I'd be dead. Moriarty had the upper hand. I had to do this."

John's jaw was taught, "I believed you were dead, Sherlock! I had just come to terms with it all and then you reappear."

"Well you know me John. I always arrive in style." If Molly had watched this moment unfolding in a film, she would have slapped her forehead and called him stupid. Because she knew what would follow. And it did. John lunged forward and thumped Sherlock in the face, not enough to make him fall, but enough to make him groan in pain.

"That was for all the mourning you put me through." John said, smoothing down his jumper. When Sherlock straightened up again, he was taken aback as John lunged for him again, though this time for an embrace. They shared a long hug, both with tears in their eyes and Molly smiled, knowing that things could only get better from here.

After this, the mood took a lighter turn. When Sherlock had explained Molly's involvement in it all, John was pleased she had managed to save his dear friend and hugged her tightly, enough to squeeze the life out of her. Mrs Hudson had appeared some time later, collapsing into Sherlock's arms and repeatedly muttered his name through tears. She was so overjoyed by his return, everyone was. Lestrade arrived after being contacted by John, smiling with disbelief and hugging Sherlock, possibly for the first time in his life. Smiles and laughter filled the room, everybody now content with the excitement of life returning to normal.

Except Molly.

Of course she was thrilled that things had been a success and Sherlock could get back to solving crimes and defeating the criminals. She was happy as long as he was happy. Though the laughter turned into a muffled drone, like she was underwater and nothing could be heard properly. She felt out of place, side lined from the conversation, like she'd served her purpose and was no longer needed, like the people in front of her were all best friends and she was the tag along that nobody really liked. Everything she had done, she had done whole-heartedly for the man she loved, the man she held dear to her lonely heart. But now she knew she would become the background person once again, unrecognised and forlorn.

The loud sound of men laughing filled the room and Molly took her opportunity to slip out unnoticed. She gave her excuses to Mrs Hudson, who was making another round of coffee and slipped from the room, moving down the stairs before anyone could see her anguish.

"Where do you think you're going?" Molly jumped from her skin, ponytail swinging over her shoulder, tears jabbing at her eyes. She looked up to see Sherlock, sleeves rolled up, hands in pockets.

"I er," Her voiced wobbled slightly, catching in her throat and she had to swallow to contain her emotion, "I-I need to get to work so, I'm just leaving now." She smiled, the corner of her mouth shaking with the need to release its true feelings. He met her on the corner step, though she moved away, "Goodbye Sherlock." As she turned away from him, he grabbed her arm lightly, swivelling her to face him again.

"You saved my life," She looked in his eyes and saw something in them that made her realise he cared, "You saved me, now the least I can do is save you."

"I'm fine." The intense look in his eyes made her look away, a moment longer and she would have cried. She attempted to leave but he pulled her close by the arm again.

"No Molly," Laughter could be heard from the room upstairs, but Sherlock ignored it, "The burden of death has switched. It's now on your shoulders and you could die the instant you step out of that door."

"But I won't."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I'm psychic." She laughed, hoping he would too so she could leave. But he didn't and Molly was fast losing the hold she had on her emotions. His eyes searched her.

"You're staying here with me and John, so that we can be sure of your safety." She shut her eyes, licking her lips nervously. Molly had dreamt of living with Sherlock, dreamt of seeing his room and using his television. Though the pain she felt in this moment, the pain of feeling insignificant again, feeling lonely once more was too much and she didn't want to be watched like a hawk in case Moriarty's men were hovering about. She wanted to forget the hope she had felt at the kiss, the hope of something when his arms had clutched her desperately in the embrace. She pulled away from the warmth of his touch.

"I'll be fine. I have to go now." Molly practically ran down the stairs, not looking back at the heartbreak, power walking to the safety of car where the tears could fall freely.


	15. Chapter 15

**NOTE: I'm back again early. It's because I was so pleased with all your reviews, I immediately sat down after college and set to work on the next chapter! I can't thank you enough and I'm so pleased that you're still here at Chapter 15. There's so much more to come and this chapter here is an _essential part_ of the whole story. Please don't be mad with me. Things will perk up for Molly very soon I can assure you... **

**Chapter Fifteen: Sherlock thinks and Molly ponders **

_**I own nothing**_

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When Molly had disappeared from his view in Baker Street, he'd considered running after her, pulling her back inside by the arm and demanding that she listen to him. He supposed this is what he would have done before the fall, before staying with her, before that kiss. He supposed that it was what he would have done if something hadn't been stopping him. Nothing physical was in his way, no, there were no barriers of the kind. It was something inside him that he'd never felt before that kept him rooted to the spot. Maybe it was the pure sadness that he saw in her eyes, or the feeling of rejection he'd been smacked with when she kept trying to escape his company. All Sherlock knew was he couldn't go after her, not now anyway.

The weeks that he had spent with Molly, living in her flat and eating her food, Sherlock couldn't deny the fact that he had learnt a lot from her. The things he'd learnt were in no way useful to his work, nor were they things he usually liked to occupy his mind with. Though somehow, in that short space of time being in close proximity with her, she had become the first woman in his life who made him reconsider his hatred for sentimental toddle.

Sherlock had presumed things would have been uncomplicated, he'd pictured it in his head quite clearly. He would stay with Molly a matter of days, bring down the men who had helped prevent him from what he enjoyed and thank her briefly as he left through his front door. Instead however, things had not gone his way and the detective had become caught up in domestic life, forced into it by his appalling brother. Stuck in the confines of it for so long had weakened him to parts of human nature he used to define as irrelevant.

Not that he admitted to it lightly, but Sherlock found himself still in a state of euphoria about the night they had argued. He knew why she had been angry, knew why she'd attempted to slap him, but at the time, his mind was set on not backing down, remaining aloof and feigning unawareness of any wrong doing.

Except he hadn't expected to do what he did, didn't have any prior intentions of wanting to explore human nature. Though his mind enjoyed how she looked, his body moved to fulfil its urges. Sherlock would have to be a robot to say he didn't enjoy it, because he thoroughly did. So much so, he hadn't wanted the kiss to end. He wanted to deepen it, get caught up in it, explore Molly and provoke more noises from her small mouth. Nevertheless, they had been interrupted and Sherlock wasn't sure whether he'd wanted it to end. On the one hand he did, because the emotions coursing through his body were becoming overwhelming. On the other, he felt relief when they had to stop, but only because he wasn't used to physical contact and not because he usually despised sentiment.

He wasn't generally interested in people's thoughts and feelings. Normally he wouldn't care at all about what someone was thinking. But when she became embarrassed at his questions that same evening, he oddly felt drawn to work out what she was thinking. Obviously it was about the kiss, because he'd been thinking about it too, he just wanted her thoughts to be voiced so he could confirm she was as wound up about it as he was.

Sherlock was now back to his old life, sat in his old chair with his old violin. He could hear John scurrying around in the kitchen, not quietly and carefully like Molly did, but fast and untidy, chucking pans about and leaving them in the sink. The detective sat and watched him, putting two cups on a tray with fresh coffee and sugar. The sun had set now and he knew that Molly would still be working, even though she'd finished her shift at five.

"Here you go." John said, placing the tray down in front of him and passing him a cup.

"Thank you." He responded mindlessly, taking the coffee and placing it down next to the chair.

"Who would have thought," His friend began whilst taking a seat, smiling and shaking his head in disbelief, "Molly Hooper. The timid pathologist, who doted over you," Sherlock looked up, "would be the one to save your life." He said nothing, "Why did you choose her?"

"I didn't choose her," The detective looked intensely at his violin, "She was my only choice."

"I know, but you must have trusted her, to put your life in her hands."

"I've always trusted her," Sherlock felt slightly uncomfortable, so he unbuttoned the buttons on his suit jacket, "and nobody realised how much so. That's why Moriarty didn't put a gun on her as well."

John gave a thoughtful pause, "You know I don't know how to thank her enough." Sherlock plucked a string, "How do you thank someone for saving your best friends life. I don't think flowers will suffice."

It was at this point that Sherlock rose from his seat, pacing about the room in annoyance, unsure whether he did the right thing in letting her leave alone. His mind back tracked over the events of the past weeks, back tracked to every visitor, every word that had been spoken, any sign that Molly would be at risk.

"What is it?"

"Terry Dean." He paced furiously now, gathering data together in his head, a feeling deep within his gut that was telling him to find her.

A frown cradled John's features, "Who? Sherlock, what are you on about?"

"He kept appearing at Molly's flat whilst I was there," His hands came together in a prayer-like position, "He's working for them, for Moriarty. Well no not for Moriarty because Moriarty's dead. But he's working against me. He's after me and to get to me he went through Molly-" He stopped suddenly, face clear with realisation.

"Sherlock, I know this can't be an easy concept for you but _please_ for once let me in on what you're thinking."

Mycroft's words drummed in Sherlock's ears. The night he'd interrupted their kiss, his brother had said something that pieced together a small puzzle, "They've been watching Molly." This was obvious, he knew she was being watched, he knew most of the people in his life were being watched at that moment in time. But they were still watching Molly at least and they would know she was alone. Alone and vulnerable in her small flat with no one to protect her.

"Molly." Sherlock said, pulling his phone from his pocket and ringing her immediately. When the call cut off, he let out a growl of annoyance before grabbing his coat and galloping out of the room.

"Sherlock!" He heard John shout before the following of footsteps down the stairs.

At work, Molly was known as the woman who did over time all the time but never got paid for it. It wasn't that she enjoyed spending her time with dead bodies and reports of murder, she just always felt the need to make sure every detail and every piece of work was done to the best of her abilities.

Today however, she hadn't planned on staying late, Molly just didn't want to face the lonely fact that Sherlock would no longer be there when she arrived home from work. Around seven in the evening she decided to leave, nipping to the shop on the way home for Toby's new bed, another diversion away from the empty flat. But eventually, she couldn't avoid it any longer and she headed home.

Switching off her engine, she pulled her shopping out of the car and headed for the door. She said hello to her land lady on the way and went upstairs to her apartment. However something didn't feel quite right as she ascended the stairs. The door to her flat was slightly ajar, but the lock was still intact. This only indicated that whoever was in her flat had access. The thought scared her, because she was the only one with a key.

Cautiously she pushed the door open further, peeping inside to see a man sat on her sofa. Terry Dean. Molly's throat constricted, her heart raced with fear. She didn't know what to do. She wished more than anything that Sherlock was here, her knight in shining armour that would save her from the wicked monster that lurked under the bridge. But this was reality and he wasn't here to save her.

Taking a deep breath, she walked into the flat, dumping her bags down furiously and watching as a smile grew upon his face.

"Miss Hooper, my old friend."

"How did you get in here? Get out now, or I'll call the police." Molly scrambled for her phone, accidentally cancelling a call from Sherlock. She cursed under her breath and panicked when she saw Terry rise from the sofa.

"I don't think you'll be doing that now will you?" Molly tapped 999 into the phone, but whimpered in pain as he grabbed her wrist, forcing her to drop the phone. Instinct told her to scream, but as she attempted to do so, Terry's grimy hand covered her mouth and pushed her against the wall, "Now, now Miss Hooper, we wouldn't want anyone to think that you're in danger now would we?"

Terry proceeded by grabbing her ponytail and chucking her down on the floor. She watched as he closed the door and put on the latch.

"W-what do you want from me?" Molly crawled away from him, as he strode towards her.

"I see that you lied to me."

"About what?"

"About Sherlock Holmes." He said angrily, leaning down towards her, way too close to her face. "I don't like it when people lie to me."

"Leave me alone." Molly said through gritted teeth, watching as Terry smiled, his stale breath hitting her face like knives.

"She's pleased he's alive." This again. Who did he mean?

"Who is?" The reporter laughed, stroking Molly's forehead creepily. Molly flinched, smacking his hand out of the way and attempting to distance herself from him. But this only made him move closer towards her.

"She likes you too." He grabbed her by the arms then, pulling her close. She sobbed, feeling as though she was trapped in a tunnel and there was no light to guide her out of danger, "She told me to give you this." Terry kissed her hard on the mouth, tooth scraping her lip painfully, making Molly feel physically sick. She pulled her face away in fear and attempted to struggle free, screaming at the top of her voice, but it was no use. He was too strong and she was too weak to fight.

"Let go of me!"

Terry gripped her arms tighter, "Oh but we're having so much fun!"

She thought of Sherlock then, sat in his warm house, completely oblivious to the danger she had caused, laughing with John and glad to be home. If she'd only listened to him and returned to Baker Street, none of this would have happened. Molly couldn't see a way out and thought all was lost. But then she heard the sound of a body thumping into her door and the breaking of the latch. Shocked, Terry Dean turned to look, simultaneously, Sherlock's fist whacked across the slime ball's cheek. The man flopped to the ground, clutching his face in pain as John tackled him to keep him place. The detective went straight for Molly, kneeling down to check she was okay, wiping the little trickle of blood that fell from her mouth.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock said breathlessly, clearly tired from running. Molly nodded, glancing over to her attacker and at this point, Lestrade walked through the door, policemen in tow as they handcuffed Terry Dean and yanked him to his feet.

Sherlock helped Molly stand, holding her elbow gently to make sure she was steady on her feet. Molly just watched as the reporter was dragged from the room still smiling, holding her mouth where he'd split her lip slightly. She was questioned for details by an officer and told to find somewhere else to sleep for the evening. There was no doubt where she would go and John insisted on making sure she was not hurt anywhere else.

"Thank you." She said to John and Sherlock, both looking at her at the same time.

"Don't thank me, thank Sherlock," John said, zipping up his coat as he prepared to leave her flat, "he just ran off without saying a word."

"Come on." The detective intervened, manoeuvring Molly to the door and heading for Baker Street.


	16. Chapter 16

**NOTE: Hello again and thank you so so much for your reviews. Thank you for coming back and reviewing more than once too, I really appreciate your support. I'm here again with another chapter because I can't seem to pull myself away from it at the moment. This was such a difficult chapter to write but I've really enjoyed it and I hope you all like it as much as I do!**

**Chapter Sixteen: John makes sure Molly is okay and Sherlock asks questions. **

_**If only I owned Sherlock**_

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Arriving at Baker Street, Molly sat down on the sofa, placing her overnight bag down on the floor. John immediately set about caring for the Pathologist. He gathered some supplies from the cupboard, bandages, a bowl of clean water, antiseptic cream, ice from the freezer and sat down next to her. She winced in pain as he did so, her head sensitive from Terry Dean tugging at her hair. Tears were pricking her eyes, yet she felt surprisingly calm about the whole situation. Although what had happened to her wouldn't be nice for anyone, she now felt safe and didn't feel as though anyone could harm her here. She knew they'd listen and keep her safe, Terry Dean was gone for the time being.

"Apart from the obvious," John began, "are you hurting anywhere else?"

Molly glanced at Sherlock, who had seated himself in his chair and was staring intently forward, "My head hurts quite a bit."

"Okay, what happened?" As he spoke, he stood to check for any bleeding on her head.

"Well first h-he slammed me into the wall when I tried to scream for help," Molly shuddered at the memory, taking a deep breath before continuing, "and I hit my head with the force. Then he pulled me by the hair so that I'd fall to the floor." John muttered expletives under his breath whilst he gave her some ice for her head and she gratefully took it.

"Okay, anything else?" John checked over her face and dabbed her lip with a wet cloth to remove the blood.

"Just my wrist I think. He gripped it quite hard to make me drop my phone and then when he pushed me over, I-I landed on it quite hard." Her words caused Sherlock to stand and pace about the room, glancing at her often, as if he were trying to calm himself down. John rolled up the left sleeve of her coat, observing her wrist closely.

"That's definitely sprained," He lightly pressed it and Molly winced, causing Sherlock to come to a standstill. John reached over for some bandages, though his friend intervened, taking the cotton roll from his hand.

"I'll manage this, John." The detective spoke, acting casually.

"No, no, I can do this, it's fine." John said, clearly confused as to why a detective wanted to do a doctor's job, "This is my job."

"_I'll _do it." Sherlock eyed him and John looked questioningly at him before giving in.

"Okay, fine." He turned to Molly with a smile, "I'll make some tea."

Sherlock watched his departure, before taking a seat next to Molly and tenderly taking hold of her swollen wrist. Molly could obviously tell he knew what he was doing with the bandage, yet still, he didn't have this sort of caring usually, so evidently he wanted to speak to her. A moment later, her suspicions were confirmed.

"You should have listened to me." He stated, immediately placing the blame on her shoulders.

"I couldn't." She said simply, not wanting to admit her heart had ruled her common sense.

"Why?" Sherlock kept his voice low, aware that they weren't alone.

"Sherlock-"

"Tell me." He continued to bandage her wrist, "Or are you going to make me tell you?"

Molly frowned, confidence growing with Sherlock, the more time she spent with him, "If you already know then why make me say?"

He looked at her then, directly in the eye, "I don't, but I'm sure I can work it out."

Before she had chance to say anything, he continued, "You were sad, I could see it in your eyes. You wanted to stay but you felt you couldn't. Why? Because of me. You felt insignificant. You felt a loss at me leaving your flat, evidently more so because of our kiss."

"Oh so we did kiss." Molly said sarcastically, not in the mood for Sherlock's behaviour, heading throbbing from the ice, "I was beginning to think I'd imagined that with you acting as though it never happened."

"Molly," He lowered the volume of his voice even further, briefly looking to the kitchen, "Don't mock me. I don't conform to human nature like I did that night."

Molly laughed quietly in disbelief, "_Right_. So you're telling me that you don't have liaisons with women?"

"Yes, you've been mistaken in your diary. You seem to have this image of me having relationships with people. I don't." He finished wrapping her wrist, securing it with some microporous tape, "I've never kissed anyone before you." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. Molly's eyes went wide. _Surely that woman from last year_, "I've never had the urge to."

"What?" She couldn't believe her ears. She was Sherlock Holmes's first kiss? Molly must have been dreaming again. He breathed deep in his lungs, undoubtedly not comfortable with the conversation.

"Don't sound so surprised." He responded nonchalantly, "It's trivial nonsense I don't like to associate myself with." He let go of her wrist, turning straight ahead and leaning back on the sofa.

"Then why kiss me?" She asked nervously. He didn't say anything, so she pressed further, "Sherlock, have you ever had…you know?" Again, he looked at her and said nothing, but the look in his eyes gave her the answer. Molly removed the ice from her head in shock. She couldn't believe that Sherlock was a virgin. He was so handsome and smart and everything she would think a girl would want. Molly would never have guessed.

"I see." She said, putting the ice back on her head.

"It's a distraction, a hindrance to my mind." She felt her heart sink slightly, starting to believe whole-heartedly that the kiss they had shared was a one off. But all that worrying and heartache she had felt over that Irene Adler was for nothing and Molly was glad.

"It's not. It's great and you're missing so much." Molly giggled nervously, not sure whether she was taking the conversation too far. She wanted to ask him why it had never happened for him. But before she could question him anymore, John came through with a tray.

"Here we are," John, said, pouring Molly some tea.

"Thank you." She glanced back at Sherlock, who caught her eye before standing and sitting by his laptop.

Nothing much was said to him after that. John and she chatted for most of the evening, discussing her time with Sherlock, how she managed to save him, though Molly thought it was best to keep quiet about their kiss. When Sherlock had been talking about it earlier, he'd kept his voice quiet, indicating to Molly that he didn't want John to know. He would chip into the conversation from time to time to comment on something he disapproved of, but apart from that, he kept quiet, tapping away at his computer intently.

"So," Molly sipped her drink, "how long do you think I'll need to stay here for?" John opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by Sherlock.

"As long as it takes." The pair on the sofa turned to look at him, having not heard anything from him for a good hour. He closed his laptop and stood, "Sleeping arrangements. It's getting late. Molly," The detective picked up his violin, "you can have my room," Her heart skipped a beat, "I don't sleep a lot as you know so I can have the sofa. Goodnight."

He turned around then to face the fireplace, picking up the bow and voicing a melody. John looked at Molly and awkwardly smiled, both taking the hint that Sherlock wished to be left alone.

"Night, Molly." John said, putting his cup on the tray and standing, "If you need anything, I can always pop around to the flat, just let me know."

She thought of her companion, "I'm worried about Toby actually."

"Well, why not bring him here?" John said kindly, "He can keep me company."

Molly smiled, "Thanks." And with that John left.

She sat there then, clutching her empty mug, unsure whether she should just leave for bed, or attempt to prolong their conversation from earlier. Sherlock just continued to play the violin, not considering the fact that John was trying to sleep or that her head was sensitive to noise. Despite her throbbing head however, Molly enjoyed listening to the notes that flowed. She watched him intently, moving the bow back and forth, pressing his long fingers across the strings.

"What are you waiting for?" He spoke, aware that she was still sat in the room.

Molly felt slightly embarrassed, realising now that he really didn't want her there, "I-I don't know. I don't feel tired enough to sleep."

"I despise sleep." Sherlock said, still facing away from her, but she could see him fiddling with his violin, "I only do it when my body becomes weak." Quite frankly, she didn't know how to respond. The detective swivelled on his feet and sat in his chair, still messing with his violin. She thought maybe it was best for her to just get some rest because he was clearly in no mood to talk, so she stood.

"I'm just going to-"

"Tell me," He began, not making eye contact with her, "You say I'm missing so much, what's so _great_ about it?"

Molly laughed nervously, "What do you mean?"

"Oh come on, you know what I'm talking about, don't play dumb. I hate it when people do that."

"A-are you asking me about my sex life?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock I-"

"What?" He looked at her then, "People talk about sex all the time. Am I not allowed to ask? Have I crossed some sort of line?"

Molly walked over to John's chair and sat down, "Well, no but," She didn't know how to phrase what she wanted to say, "I don't talk about it like most people. It's a personal thing to me."

Sherlock placed down his violin and reclined in his chair, resting his arms on either side of the chair, crossing his leg over his knee, "It's not as though I'm asking about your previous sexual partners, Molly. I'm just asking you why you suppose it is good. Explain to me why I'm missing out."

Her cheeks went bright red and the detective smiled, "I see, you're embarrassed. You don't wish to discuss it because it's me asking."

She sighed, "It's just good. Sharing something so private with another human being is the best thing about it."

He scoffed, "_Boring_."

"It's not!" Molly laughed defiantly, "A huge part of it is the pleasure of course, but it's about trust too," Sherlock locked eyes with her, "It's about being comfortable and trusting that the person your sharing the experience with is going to treat you right. Trusting that they won't laugh at you or judge you. That they'll like you how you are and not expect anything more from you than what you can give."

"Trust." He said simply.

"Yes." She responded.

There was a pause, "Do you trust me?" Her breath instantly hitched in her throat, not fully understanding his meaning. She'd just been talking about how sex involves trust, and now he was asking her if she trusted him. What did he mean? Molly thought for a second, choosing her answer wisely.

"I always have." Her eyes went wide then as Sherlock stood, taking a step towards her and kneeling down in front of the chair. Without a word, he held the back of her head gently and pulled her face closer to his. She watched as his eyes flickered from her eyes to her mouth before she felt the gentle warmth of his lips against her own. Molly couldn't see him from then because her eyelids had fluttered closed, drawn in by the second kiss from the man she loved. Her bottom lip hurt slightly by the pressure, but she wasn't going to complain. Sherlock was kissing her again.

He pulled away then, a thoughtful look on his features, before he delved in again, this time most intensely. Molly gave in to the soft movement of his kiss, the tip of his tongue seeking entrance to her mouth. She obliged, having dreamt of this moment a thousand times. His hands cautiously moved around her body as the kiss deepened, a hint of hesitation, starting at her cheek and working their way down to her back, pulling her closer so that his chest rested against her own. Molly brought her undamaged hand up into his black hair, gripping his curls tightly, causing Sherlock to let a noise of satisfaction fall from his lips. It was almost as if he'd surprised himself because he pulled away then, breathing heavy and pupils diluted.

"Sorry." He said, avoiding her gaze and visibly swallowing. He didn't give her chance to respond, moving away from her and standing, before facing away from her and straightening his jacket. She could see that he was trying to gain composure. Molly let him be, knowing this was all new for him and wouldn't wish to be teased or pressured.

After a moment, his hands slipped into his pockets and he glanced over his shoulder, "You should get some rest."

She understood that the whole thing must have been overwhelming for him, so she simply said, "Okay" and left for bed. She wasn't there however, to witness the smile crawl across the detectives face.


	17. Chapter 17

**NOTE: I have to admit, every time I get a review I get all giddy and head off to write another chapter. So thank you very much and here is the next instalment! If there are any spelling errors or anything let me know, I'll sort them.**

**Chapter Seventeen: The day after the night before and a spanner in the works **

_**I own nothing**_

* * *

Sherlock kept surprising himself. He kept surprising himself because every time Molly was in the room, he felt drawn to her and this had never happened to him before, not in this manner. When she'd left down those stairs before the attack, his mind was occupied with her safety. When John was tending to her wounds, he felt a strange anger whilst she spoke of the things Terry Dean had done. He was sure Molly had not told them the full story either. She hadn't explained how she got the cut on her lip. No bruising around her face so he couldn't have punched her. Most likely he had forced himself on her in an attempt to have his way and in the process, had caught his tooth on her mouth. It made him feel sick, deep within his gut, annoyed that anyone would harm her like that, that he would try to kiss her.

John and Molly had chatted for what felt like forever and he had tried to find a convenient social point where he could interrupt their conversation and get them to leave. Though, his intentions were to get Molly alone and his wish was fulfilled as he knew John would leave and she would stay. He knew she would stay in an attempt to further conversation with him, or at least to prolong the time they spent together. Sherlock didn't like to admit it, but he had wanted to speak with her about her description of sex. That it was "great" and he had been "missing out." He'd been told this before many a time, though had never really listened until it had been said through Molly's lips. She'd sparked something in him that had made him curious. Curious to explore human nature with her and only her.

Although he didn't show it, he was nervous about asking. Sherlock had never discussed the subject so openly before and it worried him that she would walk off if he said the wrong thing. So he thought the best approach was to come straight out with his questions and act as though he wasn't overly bothered. Except, her use of the word "trust" stopped him short. All was fine until she had used that particular word. Trust was something he didn't take to often. It took a lot for him to trust and to use it to describe sex had set him back. The minute he'd caught Molly's eye, he knew he wanted to feel the softness of her lips again, feel the warmth of her body against his own, the slow build of desire that rumbled in his stomach. Sherlock had purposefully thrown her off by asking if she trusted him. He knew she did, but he needed the satisfaction of getting a reaction from her.

He'd walked up to her and knelt down to her eye level, nerves within his chest, but outer composure intact. His mind was racing, telling him not to give in, telling him to give in. Sherlock had kissed her then for the second time, the second kiss of his entire life. That same tingle ran through his body, down his spine and to his toes. That same excitement his body had felt the last time he'd kissed her. He'd pulled away to let his mind think, to let his mind decide if this was what he wanted. And he did, kissing her once more and letting instinct take over. The detective had gotten caught up in it all, pulling her temptingly close, the smell of her skin filling his senses with longing. These new feelings he had were calming his mind, speeding up his heart and making him want to explore. Every touch, every contact with Molly's skin, he became ultra sensitive to. And when she had slid her hand into his hair, he hadn't realised how involved he had become. He gave a moan of approval at her tugging his hair. Sherlock was stunned and had pulled away with embarrassment. Embarrassed at how easily he had fallen into his animalistic nature.

He was now sat alone, violin resting on his shoulder and bow in hand, though not feeling the need to play. He'd removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, needing to cool off after his close encounter with Molly. Sherlock was baffled at how the timid pathologist had managed to get inside his head in the first place. Before the fall, she had seen through to him, though only because he had relaxed his emotions around her. So when had it happened? When had he suddenly felt comfortable enough around her to show his true feelings? Sherlock had assumed it was the Christmas party, when he had embarrassed her and he was forced to redeem the situation. Though the more he thought about it, the more he realised that he had always felt a sense of ease around her. Her bright smile and silly comments annoyed him, but also cheered him to know that there was still some kindness in the world.

He didn't stay awake the whole night. The days had been eventful, being punched by John, running across London to save Molly. Sherlock had taken to having a nap on the sofa in the early hours of the morning, though was still up before anyone else. John was next to rise from his slumber, shuffling from his room in his dressing gown and slippers, rubbing his eyes sleepily and yawning loudly.

"Morning John." Sherlock said without tearing his eyes away from the newspaper, "Sleep well?"

"My back's hurting, so no not really." He responded, still half asleep. He flopped himself in his chair and reached to poked the fire, intending to light it, "How about you?"

The detective shrugged, "The usual."

"So not really then." John lit the fire, rubbing his hands in front of it to gather the warmth, "I've forgotten how long women spend in the bathroom." Sherlock's eyes slowly removed themselves from the paper, looking over to John, "They take _forever._ I honestly don't know what they do in there." John heaved himself back into his chair, sighing heavily and rubbing his face. The detective no longer felt interested in what he had been reading. His mind was occupied with Molly once again, in his room, in his bed, in his shower. It was at that moment that she came dashing through to greet them.

"I overslept," She panicked, trying to get her coat on, "I have to go."

"Molly, wait," John said, holding a hand up to stop her, "You can't go to work, not after yesterday."

She pulled her hair from under her coat and began to zip it up, "I don't take time off."

John stood then, taking a step towards her, "Look, I know you love your job and everything, but I'm sure they'd understand if you took the day off."

"But-"

"Doctors orders." She rubbed her forehead then, sighing before walking over to Sherlock's chair and sitting herself down. She cradled her face in her hands, clearly struggling with the events of the last few days. Sherlock watched her intently from the sofa, not getting involved with their conversation, but not ignoring it either.

"I need to get Toby." She sniffled somewhat, rubbing her eyes and slouching in the chair.

"Well, don't worry, we can get him." John gave her a comforting smile, "I'll make you some breakfast and a cup of tea. Then you can stay here with Sherlock and I'll get you some things from your flat."

"Okay. Thank you John, you're so kind." Molly said gratefully, smiling at him as if Sherlock wasn't even there.

"You're welcome." The doctor left to the kitchen and Sherlock held up the newspaper to cover his face.

"Good morning Molly." He said to her, though couldn't see her face.

"Good morning." He could hear sadness in her voice, like she had had time to think over everything and it had taken it out of her during the night. Sherlock could also hear nerves, obviously unsure how to talk to him after last night.

"How's your head?"

"It's fine thank you."

"Good."

"How's yours?" Sherlock didn't understand her meaning at first, so he dropped the newspaper to see her face. A smirk tugged at her lips, but she tried to hide it and he realised she was referring to the noise he had made when Molly had gripped his hair a little tighter than necessary. He opened his mouth to speak, but John came through, so he covered his face once again with the paper.

The day passed quite quietly, considering Sherlock was in the flat. Molly had phoned in sick at work, explaining in short detail why she couldn't be there and then had spent most of the morning with her head in a book. John had dressed and headed to her flat, gathering clothes for her stay and bringing Toby. Molly had given him her car keys so he didn't have to take everything in a taxi and he'd asked nicely if he could do some shopping as well whilst he was out.

So they were left alone again, Sherlock tapping away at his laptop and Molly sat in his chair reading a novel she'd found, legs swung over the arm. They'd said nothing for a good hour and it was driving him insane. He needed something to do, a murder to solve, a person to interrogate, some experiments to conduct. He'd expected to be out there already, not sat here carrying on what they had done together in her flat. His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.

"Molly, would you get that."

"Hmm?" She looked up from her book, glancing around to determine where his phone was.

"Where is it?"

"My pocket."

The pathologist sat up, "Why can't you get it?"

"I'm busy."

She paused, "Or lazy?"

He gritted his teeth, "No, _busy_."

With a sigh, she pulled herself off his chair, standing by the side of his desk, though not reaching for his phone. He watched her from the corner of his eye, slowly bring her hand to his chest, brushing her elegant fingers across his light blue shirt and teasing her way to his pocket. He dropped his head to watch, no longer able to breathe through his nose. Sherlock could feel the warmth of her fingers and he was hit with that same feeling of desire for her, just from the simple touch. Molly reached into his pocket and handed him the phone, acting as though she hadn't been teasing him nor doing anything out of the ordinary.

"There you go." She said cheerfully, before seating herself back down and picking up her book. Sherlock wanted to kick himself, slap his own face and tell himself to get a grip. He was like an adolescent teenager, becoming excited over little things such as that. He attempted to move on from the whole mishap, forget he was acting unlike himself and concentrate on finding a case to solve. Though couldn't when he read the text. It was his brother.

_How is Miss Hooper? Gotten to know her better yet?_

_Mycroft_

Sherlock wasn't going to satisfy him with a response. So he slammed down his phone, as well as his laptop screen and sighed desolately.

"People don't sigh for no apparent reason." He heard Molly say from behind him, echoing his interrogation from one of their previous conversations. She was clever at putting him on the spot, he'd give her that, but that didn't mean he wanted to tell her his feelings. Her confidence seemed to grow everyday and he wondered what it would be like if timid Molly was here instead.

"I do."

"I disagree." Sherlock turned to look at her then, mystified by her boldness, head still turned to her book, as if she was intently reading. He didn't want to talk, so stood to leave. But as he was about to head to his room, he heard the faint sound of high heels coming up the stairs. He focused his eyes on the staircase and couldn't believe what he saw. The Woman looked at him and smiled, stepping into the front room.

"Ah, Mr Holmes," Her red lips showed off her white teeth, "How I've missed you."

Molly stood up next to him, almost defensively and he could feel her arm brush against his own, "Who's she?"

"Has he not told you about me?" The Woman stepped towards Molly and held out her hand to shake it, "You must be Miss Hooper. I've heard all about _you_. My name is Miss Adler, so glad to finally meet you."


	18. Chapter 18

**NOTE: Thank you thank you thank you for your reviews! They make me so happy, honestly. Now, this chapter I was going to post last night but when I finished it I didn't like it...so I rewrote the whole thing again today. I hope you like it. Also, (not to spoil it for you) but something happens in this scene that makes me wonder whether I should up the rating to M. Please let me know if you think it's too much. **

**Chapter Eighteen: Irene visits, Sherlock and Molly have some fun, Mrs Hudson brings a parcel. **

_**I wish I owned it all**_

* * *

"Irene Adler?" Molly stuttered, certain that that was the name of the tagged lady, who had been lying dead on a cold slab, not nearly a year ago. And the same woman that she had been incredibly jealous of for months because she was closely connected to Sherlock, "B-but you're dead?"

"Yes, I am. And it shall remain that way." Irene looked Sherlock up and down, taking in his appearance hungrily. He on the other hand, had a face of stone, no emotion, unreadable, though intently staring back. Molly felt as though her whole world had just collapsed around her, insignificant once again as the pair before her stared each other out.

"Oh now Mr Holmes, it's rude to stare. Aren't you supposed to offer your guests a beverage?" The woman smiled smugly, removing her coat to reveal a tight fitting black dress, knee length. She was such a beautiful lady and Molly knew there was no way she could compete for Sherlock's affections with Irene about.

"You shouldn't be here." He finally spoke, still looking at Irene.

"Why not?" Irene sat then, lounging on the sofa as if she had been there before. There was history between them, that much was obvious to Molly and she wanted to run from the room, never to return.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, "Because it's not safe."

"Always so caring, but I have people to keep me safe, so don't worry yourself about me." She turned her attention to Molly, looking her up and down too, the same way she had Sherlock, "Miss Hooper. I must apologise about my friend, Mr Dean." Molly's eyes went wide. Irene Adler was the 'she' he had always gone on about.

"I asked him to send you a gift, but I think he got a little carried away." The woman stood, elegantly swaying her way over to Molly and standing too close to her, "So you're the girl who saved Sherlock's life? The girl he _trusts_ more than anyone. I was expecting something more if I am honest. Though appearances can be deceiving, isn't that right, Mr Holmes?" Irene looked at Sherlock again, intently into his eyes. Molly felt extremely uncomfortable, a lump constricting her throat tightly, a mix of jealousy, heartache and sadness. She turned to the seat behind her and picked up her coat, intending to leave, not wanting to watch as the pair eye-shagged each other.

"I think I'm just going to go for a walk." She shuffled between them but felt a hand close itself around her undamaged wrist.

"No you're not Molly, _she's_ leaving." His grip was gentle as he pulled her close, almost protectively against his chest. The pathologist kept her eyes to the floor, feeling like the ugly duckling amongst all the beautiful swans.

Irene just laughed, "Why? Can a friend not drop in for a visit? Can we not have dinner, like we planned?" Sherlock said nothing, much to the relief of Molly's heart, "Fine. I'll be seeing you soon. Goodbye Mr Holmes." The woman picked up her coat, smiled from over her shoulder and strutted her way out of the room.

He kept hold of her arm, as if he was worried she would still leave. She could feel his heavy breathing on her neck, almost hear the thoughts scurrying around in his brain. Molly felt wounded, realising that he was in a state because of that woman. She had had such an effect on him that he was unable to control his emotions properly. The pathologist tried to pull away but he kept his hold, so she turned to face him. As she looked up at him, he was already looking down at her, emotion on his face that she couldn't quite read.

"Molly," He said gently, "It would seem I'm not out of danger. And you're certainly not."

"Why? Who is she? Why is she here?"

His eyes burrowed into her own, "She's Moriarty's replacement. Why else would she be here? They knew each other. When he died, she was able to return to London and pick up where he left off. She sent Terry Dean to scare you, to watch us."

"Watch us?"

"Yes. She's after information, some way to bring us down. Some way to kill us both and remove any threat. Isn't it obvious?"

"Well, n-no not really." He scoffed then, seating himself in his chair and bringing his hands under his chin, "Sherlock?"

"I need to think."

Molly swallowed, feeling deflated, "Okay. Well, I'll be over here, if you need me."

Darkness had descended on the flat without much else being said. John had returned with her things and Toby, who had settled in rather quickly, curling himself around Sherlock's legs. Sherlock himself hadn't moved much since Irene had left and Molly had sat in silence with him, reading her book and glancing over to him from time to time. John had showered, eaten his tea and told them he was off out on a date with a woman called Mary, apparently meeting her whilst out shopping. Molly had told him to have fun and use her car if he wanted. And he had left smelling like a whole bottle of aftershave.

Five minutes after John left, Molly had assumed nothing would be said until she left for bed, because Sherlock hadn't been overly talkative at all throughout the day. However Sherlock had turned to her then, speaking for the first time in hours.

"Your heart raced."

She looked up from her book, "What?"

"When The Woman was here. Why?" He stood from his chair, walking over to her and removing the book from her hands. Sherlock acted as though he was interested in what she was reading, but she could tell it was his attempt at acting nonchalant.

Molly herself was baffled, "How could you tell?"

"I felt your pulse." The detective casually flicked through a couple of pages.

"I didn't understand what was going on, that's all." She tried to get her book back from his hands, but he moved it out of her reach.

"No, you were jealous."

"I-I was not."

"Don't insult my intelligence, Molly." He chucked the book onto the nearby desk, not considering whether she had memorised her page number. He then slipped his hands into his pockets, "I want you to know that I have no romantic attachment to that woman."

"Why? Why do you want me to know? The way you were looking at each other, it seemed as though you would have been all over each other if I weren't in the room." She scowled at him childishly, still raw from her observations of how he had been drawn to that woman. And she saw what she could only describe as a look of disgust on his face in return, "Anyway, what difference does it make to me?" Molly tried to keep her cool, looking away from him, Sherlock always opening up her head so easily. He chuckled, a pleasant and unusual sound to her ears that made her heart race.

"Molly, I've already told you my romantic past." He paused, "You're the first woman I've felt attracted to in my life and I don't admit to that lightly. I've despised sentimentality for as long as I can remember. Though it is exactly what I am conforming to this moment, because of you."

"Why were you staring at her like that then?" Molly knew she was his first kiss, knew he was a virgin, but she still couldn't help the pang of jealously that had caught in her chest. He'd looked at Irene like she was an enigma, like he'd wanted to work the woman out in all aspects.

"I was surprised to see her, I told her to stay clear of London and never return. But she had other ideas. Plans that will soon come to head, I'm sure."

Molly frowned thoughtfully, "What plans?"

"Something to do with us. I haven't figured it out yet."

The pathologist gazed at him then, contemplating his words and wanting nothing more than to feel close to him. She shuffled slightly and hinted for him to sit down, which he did so, eyes fixated on her the whole time. The light from the fire flickered against their faces and feeling bolder than ever, feeling as though she might have Sherlock taken from her by someone more beautiful if she didn't do something now, she moved close to him, resting one hand above his knee, the other up to rest on the back of his head. Sherlock's eyes glided across her face as though he was taking in every detail, engraving her image into his memory. And as his breathing somewhat sped up at their close proximity, she moved in to kiss him, gently at first, wanting to show him how much she cared, show him how much she could make him happy. She felt Sherlock's hand move across her back, applying a gentle pressure to bring her ever closer. Molly felt the heat of his chest then, the fast beat of his heart and the slip of his tongue into her mouth, a noise of content coming from the man before her. On this occasion he wasn't embarrassed, nor did he pull away, only deepened the kiss further, lying her down on her back and climbing above her.

Sherlock became almost frantic in his movements, hands roaming hesitantly across her body, as if he wasn't sure where he was allowed to touch. The kiss became more heated, Molly's legs wrapping themselves around his hips to pull him as close as could be. They made a satisfied hum in unison, Sherlock breaking from the kiss so he could take a breath. He stared down at her then, taking in the look on her face before speaking.

"Molly, what have you done to me?" He muttered breathlessly, though she didn't think he expected a reply, for he lowered his head again to continue their kiss. The detective fiddled with his suit jacket, unbuttoning it and removing it swiftly, chucking it on the floor carelessly. Molly pulled his shirt from him his trousers, sneaking her hands underneath and running her fingers along his pale bare skin. His breath hitched in his throat and a smile played on his lips, inciting confidence into Molly's actions.

* * *

Not long after they had begun, they were interrupted by Mrs Hudson, who'd shouted up to them to see how Molly was after the attack. She'd started to walk up the stairs, not realising the panic she caused, Sherlock hastily tucking in his shirt and grabbing his jacket up off the floor before picking up his violin and casually sitting in his chair. He watched as Molly reached over for her book, opening it at a random page, though not really intending to read, just concentrating on calming her heart rate.

"Hello dear," She greeted Molly with a smile, "How are you feeling?"

He caught her eye for a second and couldn't help but smirk, watching as she attempted to speak without sounding breathless, "I'm fine thank you. It's just my wrist really."

"Oh you poor thing." Mrs Hudson said sympathetically, sitting down and taking a look at her bandages, "You look a little flushed in the cheeks. You might be coming down with something. Is there anything I can get for you? Tea? Coffee? Some biscuits?"

Sherlock noticed the old lady clutching a parcel in her hand, clearly for one of them and clearly something to do with The Woman. He let them chat for a minute, not wanting to offend either of the women he held close to his heart. Once his own blood had cooled, he plucked a string on his violin, gaining the attention of all in the room.

He turned to look at them, "The parcel, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh yes!" She said as if she'd forgotten about it, "It's addressed to you my dear." She handed it to Molly and stood from the sofa, "I can't think who it could be from I'm afraid, not many people know you're here." Mrs Hudson gave a smile to Sherlock before heading from the room, "I must go now. I need to pour some brandy on my Christmas cake." She tutted, "I should have done it last night but things got in the way," Hers arms fluttered about in annoyance, "and I ended up repainting the skirting boards in the bathroom. Anyway, good night dears."

As soon as she left, the detective stood and took the parcel from Molly's hands, looking at it from all directions and even sniffing it. Sherlock took in every detail, the brown, thick envelope, no special sealing, just the words 'Miss Hooper' written scruffily in the left hand corner. The writing was of a man, mid fifties, poor education, lazy. _Terry Dean_. Without asking permission from Molly, he opened the parcel and took a peep inside before pulling out the contents. There was a note, a disk, a bunch of old letters and a ring box, the relevance yet unclear. Sherlock placed them on the coffee table and watched as Molly panicked, picking up the letters and ring box, clutching them in sheer shock.

"What?" The detective asked questioningly, understanding that they must have been of some value to her. He watched as she opened the box and then closed it again, tears gathering in her eyes.

"It's my mother's ring."

Sherlock eyed her thoughtfully, "And the letters?"

"My grandfather's love letters to my grandmother during the war." Sherlock began to pace, hands under his chin.

"The note," He demanded, "read it out."

Molly scrambled for the note, hands shakily unfolding the small piece of paper. It read:

_Miss Hooper,_

_I wasn't parted from you for long now was I? Even your man Sherlock Holmes can't keep me in prison. I'll be seeing you._

_Terry Dean_

The words echoed so many things in his mind and Sherlock ran through it all in his head, continuing to pace. The Woman had taken over Moriarty, that was obvious, which now meant she had the power that he did. She was the centre of the web, able to control everything and everyone. Like Moriarty had stated his power, The Woman had done so through Terry Dean, having him released from prison for a crime he should have gone on trial for. Terry Dean was a free man, walking the streets of London and indebted to her, fully under her control, like a dog willing to do anything to please his master. Everything he had done, every visit he had paid to Molly, was because The Woman had asked him to, told him to intimidate Molly and attempt an attack on her. He felt angered, annoyed that he hadn't seen this before, hadn't been able to prevent it.

Sherlock remembered the disc. Ignoring Molly's questions, he put the disc into the television and sat in John's chair, waiting for it to load. Molly padded over, sitting down comfortably on the floor in front of the fire. What came onto the screen in front of them sent the pair into a state of disbelief. It was a video of Molly's flat.


	19. Chapter 19

**NOTE: Hello again and thank you ever so much for letting me know you're liking this! First time in this chapter that we see things from John's perspective. I quite enjoyed writing him actually. Again, mistakes, let me know, I'll sort them.**

**Chapter Nineteen: The content of the video is revealed, Sherlock feels lost and John returns home. **

_**I own nothing at all.**_

* * *

Molly and Sherlock watched themselves onscreen, it dawning on them that they had been watched all this time. The video began with Molly getting ready for her date in her room, just in her crimson bra and knickers, singing and humming to herself in delight. The detective heard her mutter under her breath and saw her cover her mouth in shock, scared and embarrassed combined into one. If the moment had been appropriate, Sherlock would have smirked, possibly even laughed, though he needed to hunt for clues and work out the meaning behind the video, so it wasn't the time. The video then flipped to her leaving her room and asking Sherlock to feed Toby, where he'd been distracted by how she'd looked for her date, evidently clear on the video, evidently clear to Molly now, who glanced at him curiously. The next clip was of her returning home drunk, shouting at Sherlock and then him in bed with her. They watched as half way through the night, Sherlock had unconsciously pulled Molly into his arms as he slept, snuggling up behind her, just like any ordinary couple. The detective's eyes widened, completely unaware that he had cuddled her during slumber, unaware that he even had the capability of doing such a thing. The clip switched again, this time to Sherlock alone in the apartment, pacing to Molly's room and rooting for her diary. It showed him sat on the chaise longue, flicking through the pages and reading the last entry, before he placed the diary back. They were arguing then, faces close and then embraced in a passionate kiss. The video ended with a group of men turning up after the attack, including Terry Dean, removing the cameras from each room, his smug smile being the last thing they saw, before the film switched off.

The pieces started to fit together for Sherlock. Sentiment was the key theme, the key message that was trying to be submitted across to them. Molly's grandparent's love letters, her mother's ring, which he assumed was her old wedding ring. The video of their gradual coming together, as well as the little comments made by The Woman. She'd said to Molly, "The girl he _trusts_ more than anyone." She'd emphasised the "trust" indicating that she had been listening when Sherlock had been asking Molly about sex back in Baker Street. He stood then, looking around the room for a camera.

"Why do people always want to watch me?" Sherlock said angrily, remembering the time he'd previously been observed by a camera.

"How did they get a camera into my flat?"

Sherlock rooted around, certain they must have been watched here to, "Obvious." He stopped rooting for a minute to look at her, "When you were attacked by Terry Dean, had he forced his way into your apartment?"

Sherlock could sense the cogs working in her head, "No, h-he'd left the door open for me. I remember being surprised that someone else had a key."

"Exactly. Someone else has a key to your flat. The Woman. She must have known I was alive and on my way back. She'd worked out how I'd survived, knew where I would go, what my plans were. She must have waited for you to be at work and sent her right hand man to plant cameras around." He continued his search.

"You mean, we've been watched all this time?"

"Yes." Sherlock saw something lying under a pile of paper's on John's desk, something that set him back. A familiar looking black recording device, identical to the one Molly had brought to hers when he'd sent her to visit John. Though, this one was wrapped in a piece of crimson material. The same material from the dress that Molly had been wearing the first night he'd noticed her beauty.

The detective calmly picked it up and removed the battery, placing it back down and looking over to Molly thoughtfully, hands in pockets. She was stood now, twiddling her hands in front of her stomach nervously, clearly not understanding the situation. Sherlock did however. It dawned on him heavily, profoundly on his shoulders. The breath in his lungs felt restricted, his throat felt unusually sore, like there was an emotion lying there waiting to emerge.

Their new relationship was the centre of The Woman's plan, Sherlock had worked that much out. The theme was love, sentiment and trust and he had the sinking feeling that they were doomed, that somehow The Woman was going to defeat them both, no matter what they did to prevent it. But why? How? How could she have known that Sherlock would develop feelings for Molly, especially when he had been so cold towards The Woman all those months ago? What was her initial reason for placing camera's around Molly's flat and watching them day and night? Why wait to kill him if they knew he was there?

Some things didn't quite make sense. All that Sherlock knew was he didn't want to lose Molly, but the doubting thoughts in his head told him he might. He took two steps towards her, a feeling of sadness washing over him.

"Sherlock?" Molly said quietly, questioningly, the first word from her mouth that he had processed since everything had dawned on him. She'd spoken to him about the device when he first found it, but it had gone in one ear and out the other. Not because he wasn't listening, it was because he was truly realising for the first time how much he wanted her in his life, how much she meant to him and how much the thought of losing her blackened his heart.

Without a word, he embraced her in a hug, closing his eyes and holding her tightly. Sherlock buried his face in her neck, breathing in her scent and cherishing everything about her. Her heard her sigh contently, snaking her hands into his hair and holding him securely. He didn't want the moment to end, he didn't want to let her go for fear that she would leave forever. That he would let go and she would float away into the cruel hands of The Woman.

"Molly." He whispered absentmindedly, an overwhelming feeling of sorrow taking hold of his chest. He lifted his head to look at her, her beautiful eyes and perfect mouth. She lifted a hand to stroke a curl of hair away from his forehead, her delicate touch sending a pleasant tingle through his body.

"What is it, Sherlock?" She spoke softly, looking him deep in the eyes and feeling his grief, reading his raw emotion, something so few managed to do. She continued to stroke his hair, comforting him and making him feel safe, "Tell me." She whispered, urging him to tell her what he knew.

Though he couldn't bring himself to do so. By developing feelings towards her, Sherlock knew that he had forged the key that might possibly lead to her death. That by falling for Molly Hooper, his pathologist, his first kiss, The Woman would use it to torture Sherlock to death. The details were hazy to him at this time, though he knew he would not escape lightly from the grasp of his enemies and he knew that his days with Molly might be limited.

"We should sleep." He said to her then, pecking her on the lips lightly before resting his forehead against her own.

"We?" Her voice was hesitant, though a hint of excitement was smuggled in there too.

Sherlock smiled, "Yes we. Though I do genuinely mean sleep. I need to take my time with all this touching. I'm not quite used to it yet."

Molly giggled, "I understand."

"Tomorrow night may be different." He said daringly, watching as her cheeks blushed red and her eyes sparkled. With a breath, Sherlock removed her hands from his hair and led her to his room, closing the door behind them.

* * *

John had arrived home in the early hours of the morning, having slept over at his date's house, though knowing Molly would need her car for work. He'd pulled up outside Baker Street, a cold December chill in the air, daylight not yet present. He dragged himself up the stairs to his flat, dumping his coat on the sofa before shuffling into the kitchen to make breakfast. John switched on the kettle and tiredly rubbed his eyes, taking his mind back to the previous night's events.

The date had gone well, extremely well in fact and he was confident that they would meet again sometime soon. They'd gone to the theatre, watched a play that John had not been entirely interested in, before he drove her home and she invited him in for coffee. One thing had led to another and he'd ended up in her bedroom, indulging in pleasurable delights of the flesh. Although he had slept with Mary on their first date, John had felt there was something special about her and had decided to invite her out the next evening, not wishing to let her be a one night stand.

The kettle finished boiling and the click of the button caused John to notice something was amiss. He realised that he had chucked his coat onto an empty sofa, where a certain Sherlock Holmes should have been asleep, or reading the newspaper, or getting fixed on nicotine patches. Baffled, he took a second look at the sofa, no one about and no sound of a shower running. Just as he was about to go and investigate, Sherlock appeared from his bedroom, closing the door immediately behind him and striding into the kitchen, dressed in his cotton pyjamas and loosely flowing silk dressing gown.

"Ah, the walk of shame." The detective greeted him cheerfully, giving John a knowing look as he passed him. John frowned, glancing to Sherlock's room and back to the man himself, "I trust you had a good night then."

"Where's Molly?" He said from the kitchen, holding the sugar pot and a teaspoon as his friend sat down in his chair, picking up his bow and violin.

"In my room."

"In your-" John felt a surge of disgust run through him, presuming Sherlock had been watching Molly secretly as she slept, "Look Sherlock, I know you're not familiar with boundaries, but there are lines that people aren't supposed to cross-"

"John."

"-and invading someone's privacy whilst they sleep is one of them."

"_John_."

He pointed at him with a spoon, "Molly is our guest and I know it's your room, but you still shou-"

"Will you shut up!" Sherlock hissed, eyes wide and teeth firmly together, "Before you go jumping to any conclusions," Sherlock said derisively, "I had consent to be in the room with her. She knew I was there."

"I don't understand…"

Sherlock sighed, "We slept together."

"_You what?!_" John almost spilt sugar across the side, not believing his ears. Sherlock Holmes _having_ _sex_? It was like he'd jumped onto another planet where everything was opposite.

"Oh do be quiet John. I mean the literal sense, not the reference to intercourse."

John felt the anger dribble away instantly, the worry that Sherlock had taken advantage of a vulnerable Molly was gone, "So you're telling me you slept side by side in your single bed, as in you just literally _slept_ together?"

"Yes." The detective had clearly become bored with the conversation, placing his violin on his shoulder and pulling the bow across the strings.

"Wait a minute." John placed the sugar down on the side and took a few steps forward, "Why did you want to sleep next to her in the first place? You like your own space and you certainly don't usually want to snuggle up to women."

"I had my reasons."

John gestured for him to elaborate, "And those reasons are…?"

"Ah, Molly." Sherlock said with a smile. John turned on his heel to see Molly emerging from the room, dressed in her own pyjamas with a cotton dressing gown wrapped around her.

"Good morning." John greeted, turning his attention back to the kettle.

He didn't pressure Sherlock anymore that morning, just observed the pair from a distance, to try and fathom why they had both appeared from the detective's room. Though, as the morning moved on, there didn't appear to be any significant clues. They didn't talk anymore than usual, didn't snuggle on the sofa or gaze softly at each other. Sherlock sat tapping away at his computer, whilst Molly curled up in his chair with a book. It was all so confusing, but John wasn't going to ignore it. Answers were needed because this was so unlike the Sherlock he knew.


	20. Chapter 20

**NOTE: I sincerely apologise for the shortness of this chapter. I had to end it there which was a bit gutting for me. But I will be updating sooner (again sorry for the delay as well). **

**Chapter Twenty: John questions and Molly works **

**_I own nothing_**

* * *

Sleeping closely to Molly, had in itself, been a rather difficult task for Sherlock. Going from minimal contact with any human being, to sharing his bed with one Miss Molly Hooper, was proving far more distracting than he had first thought. It was only a large single bed, not designed for two people and his pathologist wriggled around an awful lot, her warm body against his, not that he was complaining. He'd woken up several times during the night, one hand temptingly close to her chest, her bottom pressed deliciously against his southern region. He'd been attracted to the idea of waking her up, telling her to forget what he'd said earlier and let them be one together. But he resisted, not one for giving in to his desires so easily. Instead, he'd pushed his urges and unhelpful thoughts aside and focused on sleeping…for once.

Although he was plagued with the knowledge that he may lose her, Sherlock had woken in good spirits, appreciating the love that Molly had for him, appreciating the time he had left with her. John had his suspicions about what was going on, already knowing he would before Sherlock even left his bedroom that morning. So he'd told Molly that the day needed to consist of routine behaviour, minimal talking, minimal contact, just to keep his friend off the scent.

Though, things hadn't been that simple. John had persisted when Molly left for a shower, slyly asking the detective questions to gather information about his mysterious behaviour with Molly.

"So," He began, flopping himself in his chair with a mug in hand, Sherlock sat in his own with his violin, "Molly's a lovely girl."

"Yes." He said in a patronising tone whilst he plucked a string, knowing where the conversation was going.

"You think so too?"

"There is no other reason to think otherwise." Sherlock crossed his legs.

John sipped his tea, "Is that why you snuggled with her last night?"

The detective scoffed, "Snuggled? Such a vulgar saying."

John frowned, "Well, what would you call it?"

He said nothing. There was a stale pause.

"Do you," He cleared his throat awkwardly, "do you like Molly? It's okay if you do."

The detective furrowed is brow, "Why wouldn't it be okay?"

"I don't know, I was just-"

"I know it's okay."

"Well good then." He sipped his tea, "So you do like her?"

Sherlock couldn't fathom why he felt the need to be tongue-tied about it all. He was a man, she was a woman. Why was it complicated for him? There was the obvious fact that he didn't usually conform to such delights, however he could change and there was nothing strange about that.

"She saved my life. I trust her."

"Is that all?" John avoided eye contact, clearly wanting to act as casual as could be, though still get the answers he was looking for. Again, Sherlock said nothing, "You see sometimes Sherlock, by saying nothing at all, you give me the answer I'm looking for."

The detective inwardly kicked himself, his usual suave and indifference not entirely helping him. He placed his violin down, deliberately slow, before bringing his hands under his chin, "And that is?"

"That you have feelings for her." His friend said matter-of-factly.

Sherlock sighed, not wanting to tell him, but not bothering to put up a fight either, "Think what you like John, I've got more important things to think about."

"Like what?"

"Work."

"For a start, you have no work on at the moment, so that's a lie meant to mislead me. And two, this isn't like you Sherlock. You don't tend to have relationships with women, or anyone for that matter."

"Yes well it isn't any of your business," Sherlock picked up a random book to act indifferently, "I don't interfere with your love life."

John let out an annoyed laugh, "I'm just trying to understand and…" He paused, "help you out, if you, you know, need any advice about anything." John raised his eyebrows as if hinting to a particular subject.

"Advice."

"Yes advice." He shifted in his chair awkwardly whilst clearing his throat, obviously trying to be a friend but also finding it strange to talk about, "I know you haven't exactly…"

The detective frowned, "What John?"

"Well…been with many women." At this point Molly padded through from Sherlock's room, finished with her shower. John cleared his throat again and picked up the newspaper, whilst Sherlock just looked intently at Molly. Her hair was wet and flowing down her shoulders, recently combed. She had a pair of black denim skinny jeans on, most unlike her usual attire, though still had on her usual beige coloured cardigan. His eyes shamelessly travelled down her and back up to meet her eyes. She'd caught him looking and smiled shyly, before turning to the kettle.

Sherlock wondered whether taking some advice from John would be useful. He was after all, the experienced one in such matters and would be able to explain a few confusing questions he had, professionally. Though from what he had shared with Molly so far, he had soon realised during their first kiss, that much of the physical activity was based on instinct and responding to each other's reactions. It was about trust and he trusted that Molly would be able to guide him in the right direction. Though they had only kissed and Sherlock was sure that having sex might be a different story. The idea of it did worry him, not because he didn't want to do it with her, because in all honesty he did, _a lot_. It was the worry of disappointing her, not living up to be the great man she had always thought him to be. The more he thought about it, the more he worried, so he brushed the thoughts aside to think about later.

Molly finished making the coffee, placing a mug down next to Sherlock and walking over to the laptop. He watched from the corner of his eye as she sat down and placed her cup neatly on the mat. She hesitated for a second before turning to him.

"Is it okay if I use the laptop?" She pushed a damp clump of hair behind her ear.

"No." Sherlock said abruptly, standing and straightening his jacket, "We're going to the lab."

"Are we?"

Sherlock wrapped his scarf about his neck, "Yes." He then picked up his coat and swung it over his shoulders.

"Why?"

He sighed heavily, "Does it really matter? I want to go so we're going."

"B-but I don't start work for another three hours."

"You can be there early." He gave her a smile before heading from the room.

* * *

Molly galloped after him down the road, having not been given a chance to change into some work clothes. She caught up to him as he opened a taxi door, allowing her to climb in first. Her hair was still damp, pulled into a side bun and clinging coolly to her head. She let out a shiver, gaining the attention of the man sat next to her.

"It's winter, you should know to wrap up warm." Sherlock stated indifferently, gazing out of the window as they headed to St Bart's. Molly frowned in annoyance, partly because it was his fault she was cold and also because of his distant behaviour. When they were alone, he was a different person, sort of. He was more open and showed his emotions to her. It was sweet and loving, as loving as he could be. Last night he had contently cuddled her all through the night, never once letting go of her. Now, it was as if they hadn't shared such tenderness and it was the old Sherlock and Molly.

"You rushed me out of the flat. I didn't have chance to get changed or dry my hair." He didn't respond and she felt somewhat hurt. Molly feared that maybe he was pushing her away, that he was realising that he didn't want this sort of relationship with anyone. He'd tested the water and found it was too hot to bathe in.

Arriving at St Bart's, they headed to her lab, switching on the lights and dumping down her bag. Immediately Sherlock headed over to his usual work place and sat down, switching on the computer. After his earlier behaviour in the cab, Molly wasn't entirely sure how to approach him.

"Can I get you anything?" Her nerves rushed back to her, her hands fusing together with worry, "Is there anything you need?"

"Coffee, black-"

"Two sugars." Molly interrupted, causing Sherlock to look up at her, "I know." She finished sadly before leaving the room.

He didn't say much to her the whole time he was there. Her shift started so she went off to do her job, though when she got back he was gone. As her heart sunk at the empty seat, her phone buzzed in her pocket, almost as if he could see her sad face and wanted to comfort her.

_Finished. Back at Baker Street_

_SH _

With a sigh, she placed her phone back in her pocket and got on with her day. A body was assigned to her near the end of her shift and with little enthusiasm at another late night, she set to work. Molly pulled on her gloves under the artificial light, the dark slumber of night time having taken over hours earlier. Unzipping the body bag, she noticed something was amiss. The body felt warm, the skin was still colourful, as if the person were still alive. Molly's eyes widened as she saw the stomach breathing and as she looked to the face, a man, brown short hair, was smirking at her.

"So nice to finally meet you, Miss Hooper." That was the last thing she heard before a cloth covered her mouth and everything went black.


	21. Chapter 21

**NOTE: A new years gift for all to enjoy! Thank you for your reviews again. They've made me sit at the computer for hours and tap away contently. I hope this is okay and I'll be updating very soon because I'm already mid way through the next chapter! This stories coming to an end soon, but I am in the process of writing another Molly/Sherlock fanfiction so there will be more loving in that one and unlike this one! **

**Chapter Twenty-One: Molly gets kidnapped. **

_**I own very little**_

* * *

"She's been ages." Sherlock said frantically as he paced around the living space, hands together and breathing hard. John raised a hand in an attempt to calm the situation, not used to his companion being so angry.

"I'm sure she's fine Sherlock, you know what Molly's like. She works hard." This did nothing to calm him, it almost enraged him further and John only saw it as confirmation of his feelings for the girl. John sighed and switched off the television, ready for bed and not sure why his friend was so worried. He had been hoping to go on a date with Mary that evening, but things hadn't gone to plan. She had been busy, so instead, he'd been stuck with a silent Sherlock. A silent Sherlock until about five minutes ago that is. He glanced at his watch, now becoming suspicious himself of the time. It was late to be still working at half twelve at night.

Dragging John with him, they headed to St Bart's, Sherlock pacing a good yard ahead of him, clearly not wanting to delay. John could tell his friend was determined, anxious and god knows what else. He remembered Sherlock telling him once that emotions don't help him to solve cases, yet here he was, charging his way down the corridors to Molly's lab, clearly restless to find her and prove himself wrong for once, prove that she was okay and just being a dedicated worker as usual.

Sherlock pushed the doors open, coming to a halt a few paces in. John saw no sign of Molly, his breath uneven from the rush as he began to speak.

"She's not here-"

"Shut up." Slightly taken aback, John stared at him and was about to tell him not to be so rude, though noticed him observing the room. Sherlock yanked the door open behind them and headed to the morgue, pushing the doors open in the same manner as he had her lab. Even John observed something wasn't right here. There was an empty body bag on one of the slabs and a white cloth dropped on the floor. Sherlock bent down to pick up the cloth and cautiously sniffed it, undoubtedly just confirming his theory or it being some form of chloroform. He carelessly dropped it on the floor, looking around the room.

"Signs of a struggle." Was all the detective said, the look on his face one of pure concentration. He wasn't getting excited like he usually did about the danger involved in a case, nor the thrill of the chase. He paced around the room, his mind clearly working out the scenario in his head and not enjoying himself one bit.

"She was chloroformed," Sherlock said breathlessly, "dragged from the room. One person. Look here." He crouched down and pointed to the floor, "Faint scuff marks from where her shoes have slid on the floor. Two people would have picked her up. Marks indicate single attacker." Sherlock said nothing else, walking from the room, as if following the path of the attacker. John ended up in parts of the hospital he'd never been in before, practically running after the detective to keep up with him. They ended up in what he could only describe as a storage room for large pieces of disused equipment. He had to be honest, he had no idea how Sherlock knew where they had gone, but the doctor trusted his skills and knew he would be right on track.

This was confirmed when they came to the back of the room, the lights flickering somewhat. At the end of the room there was a small corridor leading to an open door. John could see the same scuff marks on the floor, though no Molly and with an added trial of what he could only guess was a dribble of her blood. He soon realised that this was not where the pathologist was, this was just a diversion.

"Sherlock?" John said questioningly.

"She's fine." He stated, fists clenching together, "It's purposeful. Not enough blood to be a serious wound. Meant to scare." He walked over to the open door and flicked on the light, tiny room full of filing draws and a dark wooden table against the back wall, a single piece of paper being the only thing on the desk. The detective stepped over and picked it up. The next thing John knew, his friend had darted past him and was heading out of the building. John hurriedly read the note before catching his friend. It had said:

_Your lover is waiting. The old warehouse._

* * *

Her head ached and so did her mouth and arms, though she couldn't fathom entirely why. She didn't understand what was going on as she was drowsy, but what she did know was her head was resting on a stone cold floor. Molly was then woken by the sound of clanging in the distance, with what she guessed was a metal pipe falling to the floor. She sat up with a start, eyes wide, breathing heavy, arms tied behind her back, looking around in an attempt to recognise her surroundings. She was in a large empty room, probably an old factory of some sorts, where she'd been dumped on the floor and left to wake up under an artificial light. Molly started to think back, think back through the haze to how she got here. All she could remember was she was chloroformed by a man who was supposed to be dead in a body bag. She knew from the off that it must have something to do with Sherlock, because she was a good girl and never did anything to offend people. She had no enemies or grudges and she had always been the person that people came to for advice. She was not the one people usually attacked because they disliked her.

Molly supposed now that it was known to the underworld that it was she who helped Sherlock fake his death, that his enemies were now hers also. They were mad that they'd misjudged their relationship and now clearly they were going to make them pay. The thoughts were too much and Molly's head ached. She twisted slightly with a struggle to look at the floor where she had her head. There was a slight blood stain splattered on the concrete, telling her she'd bumped her head along the way. Her wrists stung against the rough rope that was holding her hands behind her back, the same rope chafing at her ankles as she tried to wiggle them. Molly attempted to speak from her mouth but soon realised her mouth was sealed closed with a piece of cloth.

She didn't want to play the role of the damson in distress, knowing that she was being used as bait to get Sherlock in their grasp. They were wrong to think that he cared enough about her to come running right into danger. He'd be smart enough to stay away and leave her to wallow in whatever fate she was destined for here. So she knew that it was up to her to save herself. Molly knew she was timid and shy, but no one would make her out to be pathetic. She looked down at herself, still in her lab coat, now stained with black marks and blood. Molly began to wriggle and tug at the rope at her wrists, knowing that if she could break free from them, she could untie her feet and make a run for it into the unknown. She tugged and twisted, ignoring the sharp pains that were emitted onto her skin. Her skin was raw, but she continued to wriggle, loosening the rope somewhat. Though not enough. Molly began to get angry, tears in her eyes escaping the barriers and rolling down her pale cheeks. She screamed through the cloth in annoyance, clutching her eyes closed as she ignored the pain and wriggled and pulled as much as she could.

That was when she felt something cold press against her neck. She stilled instantly, the sharp point pressing slightly into her skin. Molly tried to calm herself, not wanting to play into their hands with fear, but knew full well her terror was evident. The man from the slab paced slowly in front of her and bent down, smiling as he yanked the cloth from her mouth.

"Miss Hooper," His voice was low and creepy and quite frankly, it made her sick. She never wanted to be called Miss Hooper ever again in her life. She wanted to spit in his face and tell him he was scum, but refrained, "Do you not like our company? Anyone would think you were trying to leave us."

"W-what do you want with me?" Her voice betrayed her, the wobble of it making him laugh.

"Oh my dear, please calm yourself down!" His voice was almost mocking, but anyone on the outside looking in would have thought he was caring with the way he spoke and rubbed her arm, as if to comfort her. He reached to move a loose strand of hair away from her eye and for some reason Molly let him, too scared to do anything else.

"Now," He began, as though speaking to a child, "we haven't been properly introduced. I'm Ivan Morass." She knew the name and was sure Sherlock had mentioned it to her a few weeks back. The thought made her worry all the more, "I'm good pals with some people you might know. Terry Dean and I are old friends. We go back years." Ivan smiled, as though the memory brought him happiness, "Do you know him?"

Molly was physically shaking all over, wondering whether this would be the last place she would see before she died, "Y-yes. I-I know him."

"Good!" He said gleefully, "Good, I'm glad. He's clearly been doing his job properly then!"

Molly watched cautiously as he stood then, moving away from her, his hand brushing down his dark tailored suit. She wondered why all criminals seemed to wear smart suits. It annoyed her. It annoyed her because it wasn't like they had a proper job, ruining people's lives and getting their own way all the time. Ivan began to pace about the space in front of her, the knife which he held in his hand been swung around as if it were a toy.

"You may know my boss too. Irene?" Molly wasn't surprised. If he knew Terry, he knew Irene.

"Yes." Molly muttered quietly.

Ivan hummed, "She's lovely. _Divine_. No one can understand why Sherlock would turn her down." His eyebrows rose, "She's a dream in bed. Once you've had her, you don't want anyone else." She watched as he shivered delightfully, a big grin plastered across his face.

"Please-"

"_Please?!_" Ivan knelt in front of her again, mood instantly changed, face so close to hers she could smell his minty breath, "Please what? Please let you go? Please tell you what we want?" He placed the knife under her chin and applied pressure, causing her to raise her head to the light, "Well you know what you did all those months back? Helping dear old Sherlock." She said nothing, "_Answer me_!"

Molly closed her eyes briefly and nodded frantically, a slight whimper escaping her lips as the knife at her chin dug in too much.

"Well," Ivan's eyes travelled across her face, "You were a naughty girl doing that. Naughty for tricking us. Tut tut. And we really do need Sherlock dead this time."

Molly trembled at the thought, "Why? H-he's a good man."

"Exactly! That's why he'll come for you."

"You don't know he'll come for me, h-he doesn't care about me enough to." Ivan laughed then, so hard she thought he might as well have rolled around on the floor. He stood and began to casually pace around.

"He _doesn't_ care for you? My, my," He shook his head in disbelief, "Now our Sherlock doesn't care about many people, that _is_ true. But he has his selection box of specific chocolates that he does like! He cares for Mrs Hudson like a mother and John like a brother. He cares for Lestrade because he helps him do what he loves most, solving crime." Ivan stopped pacing, "And you. Wow." The man brought his hand to his heart as though he was touched, "That's a whole new level a caring. A whole new level of caring for our dear Sherlock."

Molly's eyes flickered, "W-what do you mean?"

"We watched you both at your cosy little flat, Molly. Nice carpet by the way. I like your divan bed too. Must remember to buy one of those for myself." He paused thoughtfully, "Anyway, we all could see how much he cares for you. Checking you out when you were looking the other way, muttering your name in his sleep, kissing you when he got a bit excited." He lowered his voice and giggled, "We all enjoyed that. Sherlock getting excited over someone that is. We were beginning to think he was asexual!"

"Why do all this? Why?" Molly felt anger run through her, knowing their privacy had been utterly invaded, "Why didn't you just come a kill us, right there and forget all of this?"

Ivan sighed and sat down in front of her, crossing his legs and resting his head on his hand, "Because our little Sherlock likes a chase. He likes the thrill of it. But we wanted a twist. We wanted him to fall for his timid pathologist and conform to sentiment. We want him to suffer before he dies. Be tortured by emotion. We made him be someone he didn't want to be. Made him into something he despises," He spat the words from his mouth, though clearly enjoyed saying them to her, "And now, for the dramatic climax! Sherlock will come to rescue the person he cares for most in the world and he will be trapped. Simple!"

Molly leaned forward and gritted her teeth, "But he won't fall for it!"

"Oh Molly, Molly, Molly, my dear. He will." Ivan patted her cheek hard, "He will. We know he knows it's a trap and all that, blah, blah, blah. He knows. He's not thick, you know that. But he won't care. He'll want to make sure his pathologist is alright and still breathing." A door in the far distance could be heard opening and then the clatter of heels. Molly knew instantly who it was and took a breath. She was the cause of all this. It was her meddling and now Molly hoped and prayed that this would all blow over soon.

"Ah Miss Hooper." Irene strutted closer to them and like a dog, Ivan stood to greet her. She pulled him into an embrace and kissed him passionately before letting him go and dismissing him, "We need to have a chat you and me."

Molly sighed desolately, lowering her head for a second whilst Irene trotted around her, as though taunting her prey.

"I see you and Sherlock are quite the couple. You've sparked something in him that I couldn't." Irene patronisingly patted her head, "And to think, you're just a shy pathologist with no real attributes to your name. What do you have that I don't?" _Some honesty_, Molly thought, _some decency, some loyalty?_ She didn't voice what she thought, knowing it would only serve to cause harm.

Irene stopped in front of Molly, looking down at her with a smirk, "Do you remember my good friend Terry?" The instant she said this, the man himself stepped from the light, "He never fully got to know you that night. Terry, would you like to get to know her now?" The man grinned and removed his belt from his trousers.

"No!" Molly shouted in fear, "No please! If you have a heart you won't do this!" She begged, "Please!"

"What choice do I have? I have to break Sherlock's heart somehow. I don't possess the ability," Irene crouched down to look Molly in the eye, "but you do."

"I don't! I don't!" Molly began to tug at her restraints again, "It's all unrequited! Please just leave us alone!" Terry stepped forward and gripped her tightly by the arms, lowering his heavy weight over hers and stroking her hair as if he cared. Molly screamed at the top of her lungs and Irene stood back, crossing her arms with satisfaction.

"Sush now." Was all the witch said and began to walk from the room. Though she stopped in her tracks as she heard the heavy thud of Terry Dean collapsing behind her. Irene turned to look, a smile already painted on her face.


	22. Chapter 22

**NOTE: Firstly, I am so, _so_ sorry! I know I have taken a while to update, but it is for good reason. I had to get this right and I couldn't rush it so that is the reason for the delay. I really do hope this is okay and just to let you know, this isn't the last chapter. I have one more chapter to come, but all will be tied up nicely (I hope!). Please please let me know if this isn't okay. I really hope it is, but just in case, you know, let me know.**

**Chapter Twenty Two: ... **

_**I own not a thing**_

* * *

His heart had pounded in his chest agonizingly, so much so the sounds emitted into his ears were muffled. He knew this was it. Live or die. Joy or despair. Love or heartbreak. Sherlock realised as he made his way to the old warehouse, that Molly meant more to him than he realised. He couldn't bring himself to use the word, that four letter word that was the strongest form of sentiment. He never felt he would be able to, because he wasn't sure that it was what he felt, but he knew the feelings he held in his heart for her were strong, stronger than anything he had ever felt before. He thought about her day and night, his heart raced whenever she was nearby, his skin warmed at her touch. She had become his everything, she knew him better than anyone, she could see through to his emotion even though he was able to hide it from everyone else and if she were to die tonight, Sherlock would be certain the majority of him would die with her.

He legged it from the cab and up several flights of stairs to where a single light was shining. He reached the room, breathlessly, anxiously, quietly sneaking into the echoing room. The detective could hear Molly pleading with The Woman to let her be.

"I don't! I don't!" She begged. Sherlock's heart tugged with the need to help her, comfort Molly and tell her he was here to help. He was in the darkness, the room so large it could fit two average British homes into it. He could just see Molly strewn on the floor, fear riddled in her features, in her beautiful eyes, the tremor in her perfect lips, "It's all unrequited! Please just leave us alone!" Terry Dean stepped forward and trapped her underneath his heavy weight. Sherlock's stomach churned as Molly's scream pierced his lungs and his fists clenched, his teeth gritted together painfully. The detective was biding his time, but was ready to pounce. When Irene turned away Sherlock picked up a hefty piece of wood from the floor and appeared from the darkness, whacking Terry right across the face and watching with bitter satisfaction as he fell to the ground unconscious.

"I knew you would come, Mr Holmes. Can't stay away from me for long now can you?" Irene said with a smile, her red lipstick showing off her white teeth. Sherlock ignored her completely, breath still uneven, collapsing by Molly's side and beginning to remove the ropes from her arms, "Ah, no. I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Sherlock ignored her again and continued to undo the knots. He heard Irene sigh before the click of her fingers echoed in the room. In that instant, half a dozen men stepped out of the darkness. Molly whimpered, a tear trickling down her pale face. Sherlock felt the cold stab of a gun at the back of his head. He looked Molly deep in her teary eyes, not willing to move from her side.

He was yanked up from the floor, two men holding him tightly by the arms. He intended to put up a fight, worried about Molly's safety, though knew the way to get out of this situation was through intellect and not violence (well, maybe just a bit of violence was needed). He'd proved to Irene beforehand that she couldn't outwit him, so he knew he could win this, he just needed to work out how.

Molly was dragged up to stand, looking physically weak and scared, though was attempting to act brave. Sherlock understood it must have been difficult for her. She wasn't used to the chase, or this sort of life. Of course she dealt with death almost every day of her life, but that didn't mean she was there to witness the gruesome acts behind the scars.

"Ivan." Irene shouted behind her.

"_Ivan Morass_." Sherlock muttered under his breath, not audible enough for anyone to hear. When he'd been staying with Molly, this name had crept up whilst doing his hours of research and he was aware that Ivan had wanted to meet him. Though when Sherlock had involved his brother in the whole matter, they'd changed their plans, obviously. The tall brown haired man approached from the other end of the room, a cheerful smile plagued across his face.

"Mr Holmes, so glad to meet you. I've heard so many delightful things." He held out his hand but Sherlock just raised his head in defiance, not willing to shake his bloodstained palms. Ivan made a mock shocked face before turning to look at Molly, "Gosh! You're just as rude as each other I see. The perfect match then."

"Enough with the idle chatter." Sherlock spoke for the first time, his mind taking in every detail of the situation, ready to win by any means, "What is it you want, Woman?" He looked at Irene then, one hand on her hip, smirk on her sharp face, red dress clinging to her body.

"Do you really need to ask? I presumed you would know. You like your games, if I remember correctly." The Woman began to pace around Molly, as though to intimidate her, "This was a fun little game I thought up when I observed you both together." Irene laughed to herself, "Who would have thought, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, could fall in love?"

"L-love?" Molly stuttered and Sherlock took a deep breath, raising his head somewhat, a feeling of what he could only describe as realisation on his part, confirmation almost. Irene was right and he felt defeated because of it. This was the sick game she was playing, making him love, making him distracted, making him weak. He'd conformed to sentiment. He'd fallen in love. The mere thought made him scoff out loud, much to Molly's dismay, "Sherlock doesn't love me."

"Oh now Miss Hooper, I wouldn't be so sure of that. Don't you observe? Don't you see?" Irene came to a halt in front of Molly, stroking her face, "You're clearly simple minded, like most people in the world. If you used your head, you would know that he's like a stubborn puppy in love. Sherlock doesn't _love_." Irene wiped a trickle of blood from Molly's cheek that had dripped from her split head, "At least he didn't used to. I found it a challenge to break his interior. I managed to an extent I suppose." She glanced over her shoulder and gazed over to him, "He did save me after all."

Sherlock laughed, eyes glaring at the darkness about him, inwardly kicking himself at his own stupidity, "If I had known what you would become, I would have left you at their mercy."

"Oh but you didn't, Mr Holmes," She strolled across to him now, face close, hands grazing along his purple top, slipping her fingers under his shirt between the buttons. He could feel her painted red nails scrap lightly at his skin, the sensation not the pleasant one she intended, "You must have felt at least something for me, _obviously_."

He inched his face closer to hers as if to kiss her, watching as her reaction changed, confirming what he needed to get themselves out of danger. Her eyes softened, her breath hitched, but her face remained in control, "I only ever played the game you created." He inched slightly closer, venom injected into his voice, breath catching on her face, "And you lost."

Irene kept her eyes on him, a smile plaguing her lips, a slight tear forming in her eyes, those miniscule tears giving her away completely. Sherlock knew that this was her safety net, a way to overrule all her enemies. She didn't want to be the cruel woman she had become, but she did it to stay alive, to keep her head above water and away from death. She was scared, doing the work of the man before her. And if it meant killing others to help herself, she wasn't going to waver, for now.

Yet Sherlock observed that this particular situation had a personal edge to it. Irene was not just continuing Moriarty's ambition to have him dead, but she was green-eyed. Jealous that Sherlock had given his heart to someone else and not her. She, The Woman, who had worked so hard to lure him, and yet had failed to make his heart beat faster. She was bitter, saddened and heartbroken at the fact that Molly was who he'd fallen for. His pathologist, his Molly.

Her smile turned into a breathy laugh, a laugh that told of her next actions. Irene cleared her throat, keeping her eyes locked with his. The words from her mouth then, did not surprise him.

"Put her on her knees." The Woman turned away from him and watched as Molly was forced to the ground, a whimper escaping her lips as the sound of her bones smacked on the cold concrete floor. Irene walked over to one of the men she'd acquired and pulled a knife from his belt. Sherlock took the opportunity to observe the room.

_Ivan, knife, right pocket. Two men holding my arms, easily removable, though one has a gun, could be tricky. The other, unarmed, how silly. Two men pinning down Molly, one now unarmed thanks to the Woman, the other, possible weaponry on person, though not visible. Not likely a gun then. _

He smiled, a deep chuckle humming from his throat, simultaneously hearing John's voice at the back of his head, _"not the time, Sherlock." _Molly glanced at him just as the smile grew wider. Her face was horrified, thinking he was enjoying the moment, enjoying her near death experience, though in reality, he knew this was easy. He was going to win this, no problem. Irene crouched gracefully in front of Molly then, lifting up her chin with the sharp blade and glancing at him.

"I didn't expect you to be laughing at the death of your lover." She spat scornfully. As fast as the smile graced his face, it dropped again.

"What happened to you, Woman?" He put on an almost sympathetic voice, at the same time, testing the grip of the hands on his arms, "I saved you and you repay me with scorn? Seems _highly_ unfair, don't you agree?"

Irene laughed, "Oh, don't flatter yourself, Mr Holmes. I made this happen." She dug the knife further into Molly's chin, "I made you love this pathetic, _mousy_ pathologist." She stroked Molly's hair once again, a tear escaping Molly's eye, "I wanted to prove you could care. That you could _love_. And then when you finally did, I'd make you pay for it with her death."

"Why? Because I could not love you?" Saying the word love made him cringe, but he kept his cool, "Or because this is the bitter woman you have become?" Sherlock pretended to choose, "I'm going to say both."

"I have no choice." He watched as the tears left the safety of her eyes, slowly breaking her piece by piece. _Not long now Molly_, "If I show weakness, I'll be dead. No mercy. This is my life now, this is what I have to be to _live_."

"Murder an innocent woman in cold blood?" His eyes locked with Molly's, hopefully emitting a vibe that told her things would be okay, soon, "This is not you."

"No Mercy." The Woman repeated through gritted teeth, shell finally breaking. She stood, flinging the knife off into the darkness with a loud scream. Sherlock took the opportunity of escape. He whistled his signal and as planned, John came from the shadows, hitting Ivan across the head with his gun, Sherlock concurrently flinging himself from the grip of his hostages, knocking the unarmed man to the ground, whilst twisting the gun from the other mans grip and kicking him to the floor. He ignored the sound of a head cracking on the ground and held the gun up to the men holding Molly to the floor. John grabbed Irene and tugged her to him, firing a shot at one of the remaining men standing. He yelled in agony, whilst Sherlock planted a fist in the face of the final man.

"Finally." The detective muttered nonchalantly, glancing at all the bodies on the floor before dropping to Molly's side, hands on her cheek, checking she was okay. He caught her eyes and she whimpered. Swiftly, Sherlock removed her restraints and she collapsed in his arms. He couldn't help the feeling of relief that washed over him and he hugged her back, indescribably pleased knowing that his Molly was safe.

A derisive laugh from behind broke them from their moment. With one final look at Molly, he stood, picking up the bloody ropes and pacing slowly over to Irene.

"Sherlock." The Woman said in a whisper, a plea for him to be merciful with her. He couldn't help the disgusted look that shaded over his eyes, couldn't help the delightful feeling he got as he wrapped the ropes around her wrists a little too tightly. "Please." She said as the tears freely flowed from her eyes.

"No need to beg." He pulled his phone from his pocket, typed a messaged and placed it back, "People often presume I'm heartless, but I do in fact _care_." His eyes made contact with Irene, "I'll let Mycroft do what he wants with you. That is me showing _mercy_." He growled. With that, he turned to Molly, helped her to her feet and headed out of the room.


	23. Chapter 23

**NOTE: I'm sad! Really sad that this is the end. But I do hope you've all enjoyed it and I am so so grateful for every single review you've given me. Without them, I'm not sure I would have made it to the end. So Thanks! I hope you might consider joining me for my next Sherlock/Molly story I've started. It won't be a follow on, but just another way I imagine they could get together. Finally, happy Sherlolly Week! It's only made me love this pairing all the more! **

**Chapter Three: Everything settles down. **

_**I own nothing**_

* * *

_Two Weeks Later…_

For her own safety, Molly had been instructed by the people around her to stay at Baker Street, until she had fully recovered, until she felt protected enough to go home. Mrs Hudson had kindly visited her a handful of times, bringing her various items of clothing, biscuits and some flowers, telling her she was a brave soul for getting through such an ordeal. Lestrade had been to see her once, telling her that if she needed anything, she could always call him for a chat. He'd told her Terry Dean was behind bars for good and he wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon. John had tended to Molly's wounds daily, the bang on her head, the raw skin on her wrists and ankles. He'd informed her that she was doing well and could be back to work whenever she wished, just as long as she took it easy and didn't let Sherlock boss her around too much.

Sherlock however, over the past two weeks, had done nothing but keep his distance from her, letting her have his room whilst he slept on the sofa. He did bring her tea and make sure Toby was fed at regular times each day, even one night when she tossed and turned in sleepless slumber, he crept into the room, kissed her on the forehead and stroked her hair until she drifted off, saying it would help calm her thoughts. Though apart from that, not much communication had passed between them. Of course Molly presumed the worst. That Irene Adler had struck a chord in him and Sherlock had decided that after all that had happened, love and sentiment really wasn't his cup of coffee. She wouldn't blame him if it were the case, nor would she would she feel used as an experiment. Feelings such as love and passion were something new to him, something even sometimes overwhelming to those had been used to it all their adult lives.

The experience with Irene, Ivan and Terry Dean had in itself been rather unnerving for Molly, at one point wondering if those dark rooms and cold floors would be where she spent her final moments. This was obviously not the case she knew now and all had ended well, thankfully. John had filled in the details for her, told her of the plan they had formed before finding her. He said they'd found a note at the hospital and Sherlock had immediately said he needed to go alone. He'd said that John would need to hide until he gave the signal and fortunately, Sherlock had been successful in breaking down Irene's barriers to find the good she still had hidden inside.

Molly couldn't help but feel sympathy for Irene, despite her careless actions. Although the woman had been on the brink of murdering her, Molly had witnessed severe distress within her eyes after Sherlock had taunted her with his words. Irene was genuinely heartbroken over him, genuinely scared for her life and not quite used to the existence she now had. What she was doing were actions of fear, fear of her own safety, a fear of the future and what it might hold for her.

John had informed Molly of what Irene's fate was. Mycroft had been notified by Sherlock immediately about the scene and he had visited to "clean up" what they had left behind. Mycroft had then taken the woman and dealt with her "appropriately". John had said he didn't know whether this meant death or exile to a far away land. All he knew was the likelihood of her return was almost none.

The Pathologist led there now, alone, surrounded by Sherlock's bed sheets, head resting on his soft pillow that faintly smelt of him. A small tear fell from her eyes, almost in acceptance that this might be her final close moments to the man she loved.

* * *

"How is she, John?" Sherlock said one morning from the sofa, not looking away from his newspaper as his friend entered the living room.

"She's fine." The doctor said, seating himself down in his usual chair with a heavy sigh, "But you do know you can ask her yourself? She's in your room."

"I know."

"If you know, then why don't you go and ask her?"

"I make her tea. What more can I do?" The detective dropped the newspaper slightly to look at John, "Anyway, she's just had a traumatic experience-"

The doctor interrupted, "Which is exactly why you should be in there." There was a silence then, so Sherlock continued his pretence of reading the daily news. Five minutes passed until another word was uttered.

"This won't be the end of it all will it?" John had been to the kitchen and back to make a cup of tea and was now clutching it thoughtfully in his palms, "I mean, Irene. Someone will replace her and then this whole commotion will reappear again, won't it?"

Sherlock folded his newspaper then and placed it by his side, reclining somewhat into the sofa, "Most likely. The Woman was a mere figment. Moriarty's real replacement will come along soon enough. They'll want me dead again, no matter who does it."

"So what do we do?"

"Sit tight and see what happens. We shouldn't dwell on it in the meantime." He smiled, though it was more false than anything genuine, "Excuse me."

Sherlock stood from the seat, pacing straight past John to his room. Stopping outside the door, he glanced back to his friend, making sure he wasn't watching as he took a deep breath to calm himself. He knocked on the door lightly, pushing it open slowly without waiting for permission. Molly was under his thin covers, one knee poking out at the side of the sheet, her body curled up with her hands under her chin. Her hair flowed behind her back, as though she'd brushed it away from her delicate face. Sherlock could see her wounds were healing nicely, wrists almost mended completely and head wound not far behind. She would soon be back to her normal self, he was glad of that.

His heart suddenly began to thump hard in his chest as she stirred and he quickly span to close the door, not wanting prying ears to listen in on their conversation. The morning sun streamed through the window and caught on Molly's face, causing her eyes and nose to crinkle.

"Sherlock?" She spoke softly, opening her eyes to look at him, one of his white shirts clinging loosely to her body. He couldn't help but clear his throat at the sight of her, the sight of her smooth skin deftly stroked by a stream of light peeping through the blinds.

"Molly." He didn't really know why he'd come to his room and he honestly felt quite out of place. But Sherlock knew he had wanted to see how she was doing, make sure she was okay and he was sure she wouldn't mind his presence. He'd been avoiding her these past weeks, not because he no longer wanted to continue what they had started, but mainly because he'd felt awkward. The Woman had put Molly in danger, almost killed her, all because of her own mad jealousy. She'd also made him realise something that he himself had not and the concept of the whole thing had startled him. Sherlock had needed to think through it all before continuing any further with Molly. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, he'd done that enough over the years.

"Are you okay?" She asked, voice slightly gravelly from sleep, moving to sit up a little as the shirt slipped and exposed her shoulder. All he could think was how perfect she looked.

The detective smiled at her selflessness, "It should be me asking you that question, Molly." They laughed with each other for a second and Sherlock's eyes purposefully drifted once again to the shirt she was wearing. Her eyes followed his and in a state of embarrassment, she sat up, pulled the shirt back onto her shoulder and tugged the covers over her exposed legs.

She smiled nervously, "Um, s-sorry. It was hung on your chair and I have no clean pyjamas."

Sherlock stepped forward, knees now touching the side of the bed, "It's fine. It suits you better." There was an awkward silence then and the detective immediately felt there had been too many silences for one day. So he removed his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves before sitting next to Molly on his bed. She shifted her weight so that he could fit on the mattress with her and he swung his legs up to rest comfortably.

"Molly…" He began, head resting on the headboard, hands on his stomach, eyes averted away from the form next to him, "I apologise for my absence since…" He cleared his constricted throat, "I've been thinking." Sherlock couldn't remember a conversation halting his brain so much before. He saw Molly pull his shirt further over her chest self-consciously, bracing herself for bad news. He frowned at this and turned to look at her.

"What makes you think I have something bad to say?"

"What? I don't."

He scoffed, "Molly, please don't insult me."

She shoved some of her hair behind her ear, "Is…Is it good news?"

"It depends on how you look at it." Sherlock shifted his body to face her more now, eyes tracing along her features, her eyes fixed intently on him, "I've often said I'm married to my work and that would imply that I have no time for relations of any kind with anyone. I've quite honestly never wanted to before." The detective lifted his hand to stroke her cheek, her breath catching in her throat at his touch, "You Molly, you've done so much for me, more than most would be willing to do. And I sometimes wonder why you ever bothered after how I've treated you."

"Because…" She faltered and dropped her eyes, pausing before continuing, "It's what you do when you love someone."

"Molly." He whispered softly, wanting to kiss her for that. He wanted to kiss her and show her how much her words meant to him. But Sherlock needed to finish what he had to say before anything else commenced. So instead he rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes briefly, continuing to hold the side of her face delicately, "I need to make a few things clear. I want to keep on with what we have started and I want to explore these new emotions I'm feeling. I want to be with you and only you." She smiled, "But, I'm not going to be the boyfriend you want me to be. I'm not going to want to go strolling around the park holding hands or go to the cinema, or bring you flowers when I feel like it. I'll be different when I'm with you, but when I'm working, I'll be much the same as before."

Molly moved her head back to look at him and he caught a gleam in her eye, "Except with less insults?"

Sherlock laughed a genuine laugh, "I suppose I could agree to that."

"Good." Molly ran a hand through his curly hair, "That's all I need." She moved to kiss him then, the warmth of her lips making him realise how much he'd missed this intimacy with her. He parted his mouth, seeking out the heat of her own, arms sneaking around her tiny waist to pull her close to his chest. A familiar tingle ran around his body as her hands slid around his neck, the same tingle he'd gotten every time they'd kissed before. It urged him on, no need for John's advice, just basic impulse taking over. Sherlock pulled her by the waist to lie her down, his own body instinctively lying atop hers, all else forgotten. Molly warmed his skin wherever she touched him. Her hands roamed confidently across his clothed back, down his sides, gripping his arse pleasantly, making him shiver and groan when she wriggled beneath him.

Sherlock pressed his hips into Molly's, a delightfully agreeable sensation shooting through his limbs. He smirked greedily at her, her name breathlessly falling from his lips as his heart hammered against his lungs. He had never felt so overcome with emotions before, but in the current situation, he didn't seem mind. He liked the way Molly's eyes fluttered closed at his kisses. He liked how she arched her back to bring them ever closer and he thoroughly enjoyed how she let her hands explore freely at the intimate parts of his body that usually went untouched. Shy mousy Molly was nowhere to be found in this room.

The more she discovered his body, the more Sherlock's actions became desperate, frantic. He somewhat hesitantly explored her body at first, having never done this before, but the faster the moment heated up, the more certain he grew, removing the shirt covering her modesty whilst she removed his.

Eventually nothing separated them and Sherlock finally understood what all the fuss was about. He understood why people giggled about sex and bragged about their recent adventures. The touching, the frenzied movements, the breathy sighs and heated cries. It was sometimes clumsy, sometimes awkward, but the majority of it all was thrilling, exciting and quite frankly, addictive. In a way, he wondered why he had never done this before, why he'd never given in to his desires to be with another, not that he had ever really had those feelings before Molly. However, at the same time, although sentiment usually wasn't his area, he was glad he'd rejected it for so long and experienced it with someone who meant something to him. Someone who was smarter than most, competent and utterly trustworthy. Someone he loved, as much as he despised the word. His Molly, his pathologist.

* * *

That evening, John shouted through to Sherlock and Molly, telling them they'd been in that room long enough and dinner was on the table going cold. It wasn't usual for Sherlock to waste his time doing nothing in his room. Well, John had thought they were doing nothing, presumed they may have been talking, or sleeping even. No, it wasn't the case. As he had been casually reading the newspaper late that morning, noises emitted themselves from the direction of his friend's room. John's eyes had widened to an abnormal amount, silently dropping the paper and picking up his coat, hurriedly walking out of the flat, not returning until it had gone dark, feeling it was only fair that they had time alone. Plus, he wasn't really comfortable hearing his usually asexual friend moaning and groaning.

As he finished making coffee, Sherlock emerged from his room, clad in his usual sleeping attire and a flush about his cheeks. John gave him a knowing smile, in return receiving a dismissive scowl.

"So, how does it feel to finally be a real man?" He teased, carrying a tray of filled mugs over to where they were dining. Sherlock rolled his eyes, picking up a knife and fork, not bothering to wait for anyone else to sit.

"You presumed all those months ago that I'd had relations with the Woman, what makes you think I've not been a real man for a while?"

"Oh please." John laughed, "It's obvious."

Sherlock frowned, forgetting about the fork full of food he was about to consume, evidently not comfortable with being so transparent to others, "How is it?"

"You're not the only one who can deduce things, Sherlock." He watched as his friend's mouth opened and closed as if to comeback with something witty. Though, before the detective had chance to respond, his attention diverted to the door opening across the room. Molly shyly padded over, properly dressed unlike Sherlock and hair tied back in it's usually style.

"Good evening, Molly." John uttered politely, making sure she didn't see the smirk he gave to Sherlock. His friend scowled childishly once again, Molly taken it upon herself to sit down. John smiled happily, taking a seat himself, silently observing the two other people in the room.

Their meal commenced silently, Molly the first to break the still air in the room. She questioned John about his current lack of work and his blog, enthusiastically listening and answering any questions he gave in return. The doctor glanced now and then to Sherlock, noticing him subtly observing Molly whenever he thought no one was watching. It was nice to see Sherlock finally conforming to sentimentality. John knew full well that the detective wouldn't let it get in the way on his work, though he also knew that Molly wouldn't come between it, understanding him and how much his crime solving was a part of his life.

When they'd eaten, Sherlock left the room to change into a suit, returning with the intent of playing his violin until god knows what hour in the morning. John grimaced and hoped that Molly would somehow manage to distract him, by any means, he didn't really care. In fact, he was counting on it because John really did need to catch up on some much needed sleep. As he was picking up the empty plates from tea, footsteps could be heard ascending up the stairs. All three turned to see Lestrade, a smile on his face as he greeted all in the room.

"You're gonna like this one, Sherlock." His hands rested on his hips, eagerly smiling at the reinstated consulting detective, "Triple murder, all victims died after visiting the cinema, same time on separate evenings." Lestrade pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling to find a picture on his phone, "Here."

Sherlock took the phone, "A code, numbers."

"Yeah." The detective inspector took his phone back, "All have a similar code carved into their skin. We need you to solve this one."

"Clearly a murderer who likes a chase." Sherlock laughed gleefully, "Brilliant!"

"_Sherlock_." John said warningly.

"Right, yes." He span on his heel, wrapping his scarf around his neck and then his flinging on his coat. John realised they were heading out and so grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, saying his goodbyes to Molly. Sherlock smiled again, undoubtedly happy to be back to work after months of being away. Lestrade left the room first, John soon following. But the doctor had for some reason, the urge to turn around. He saw his friend following not far behind, and he could just see Molly physically deflating in the background, having been completely ignored by the love of her life. But just as John was about to say something to him about her, Sherlock suddenly turned, headed back into the room and kissed Molly on the lips. John couldn't help but grin as he watched Sherlock holding her face tenderly in his gloved hands, whispering something to her that made her smile and blush. It was strange to see him so affectionate with another human being, yet it was nice to finally see. Sherlock bolted passed him then, galloping down the stairs at a rapid speed.

"Come on, John." Sherlock shouted, "We've got work to do!" John just smiled, content and happy that everything had worked out, flying down the stairs after his dear friend.


End file.
